


Sober Chips for Non-Addicts

by Es_Aitch



Series: Not An Addict [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Gen, Headcanon, Missing Scene, Past Drug Use, Past Sucide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 49,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Es_Aitch/pseuds/Es_Aitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story continues where <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/691232"><i>I Am Not An Addict</i></a> (<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145542">Canon Compliant Version</a>) leaves off.    We meet the remaining members of Sherlock's close-knit group and continue to explore the parts of canon that are "left out."  This story will take us through "His Last Vow" (And beyond...?) Rating may change due to Sherlock being Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Anything recognizable to the general public isn't owned by me, but by the parties to which they belong.
> 
> While the reading of [_I Am Not An Addict_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/691232) is not required for this fic, it will help you to understand Sherlock's background and my personal headcanon as this story moves forward.

**PROLOGUE:**

Sherlock Holmes had been out of rehab for a year and his brother Mycroft had received a promotion within the Government.  Mycroft decided they should meet for dinner to celebrate. As they waited for their meal to be served, Mycroft spoke, “I will be doing a substantial amount of travelling.  Which means, brother dear, you will have more of the freedom you’ve been desperately seeking.”

Sherlock did grin at that, “Excellent.”

“I thought you would approve.  Though, that is not the only reason why I asked you here.  There is a celebration for you as well.  Since you were far too ill in your drug-addled state to do anything other than recover in the first couple of weeks.  I figured today, would be a more appropriate day to celebrate your sobriety.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“It was a year ago that you entered into rehab.  And while I don’t subscribe to trinkets, I do believe it is something worth acknowledging and celebrating.”

Sherlock was dumbfounded.  In an attempt to cover the silence, he took a sip of his drink.  Their meals were delivered moments later and the two brothers ate in silence.  When they had finished dessert, Mycroft could tell that Sherlock was anxious to leave.  “There is one more thing, brother, if you’ll permit me a moment.”

Mycroft left the room.  A part of him fully expected Sherlock to leave while he was gone.  He returned carrying a large wrapped box.  Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I thought you didn’t believe in trinkets.”

Mycroft chuckled softly, “I believe you’ll find this is much more than a ‘trinket.’”

Sherlock slowly tore into the wrapping.  The box was of high quality, but Sherlock quickly opened it.  Inside, was a fine coat made of Irish wool with a tweed weaving.  It was a gorgeous coat.  Sherlock looked to his brother, “I don’t understand.”

Mycroft smiled, “I have seen you eyeing this coat when it was in the shop window.  I thought it would be an appropriate reward.  And something of use to you.”

Sherlock nodded, “I do like it.”

“This,” Mycroft continued, “Is your sober chip.  As long as you remain drug-free, it is yours.  Should the coat become worn or tattered, I will have it replaced, as long as you are drug-free.  You have earned the right to wear it on your own.”

Sherlock fought the tears that were threatening to well in his eyes, “I…. Thank you.”

Mycroft smiled at that, trying to keep his own tears from spilling over, “I am very proud of you, Sherlock.  I hope you can accept this small token not only as a sign of the work you’ve done, but as a reminder that I am aware at how hard you work at remaining clean.”

With that, Mycroft stood, pulled the coat out of the box and helped Sherlock to put it on.  Sherlock had not worn anything quite like it in his adult life.  Sentiment aside, he did feel like he could be a success while wearing this coat.

Nothing more was ever said about the sentimentality or the symbol that the coat carried for the brothers.  Mycroft knew that as long as Sherlock was wearing it, that somehow beyond all the jibes, his brother still cared for him.  Sherlock knew that no matter what he was going through, his brother would always try to understand him.  While the coat changed nothing about how the brothers treated each other on the surface, it somehow made the familial bond they shared that much stronger.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 1:**

**A/N: While the physical descriptions of the area of Star Street are fairly accurate, please remember, this story remains a work of fiction and in no way indicates that these events happen in the locations mentioned.**

* * *

_“_ _He’s making us look like idiots.”_ – A Study in Pink 

Sherlock Holmes had now been drug-free for thirteen months.  He wore his “sober coat” everywhere as a reminder of his accomplishments.  He was doing fairly well on his own: he had a website to drum up business and he had a flat on Star Street, not far from Paddington Station.  While there was a lot of traffic in this part of town, the few flats immediately surrounding Sherlock’s were a bit less desirable.  They attracted people who needed to be near the major transportation hub that Paddington was, yet who could not afford to pay high let fees.

This description fitted Sherlock well enough, the problem was, those low-cost flats had a high turnover rate.  Sherlock was certain that drug dealing was occurring in a couple of them.  He did what he could to ignore this fact.  He was not an addict and he was a year out of rehab.  There was no reason why the presence of drug dealers needed to be a source of temptation with him.  So he put it out of his mind.  After all, they needed a place to live and as long as he stayed away from the drugs themselves, he would be fine.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade would call Sherlock in to help him with cases on occasion.  Up until now, Sherlock had not had much interaction with Lestrade’s team.  That all changed the night a body was found in the flat next to Sherlock’s flat.  DI Lestrade and his team had been called to the site.  While Greg knew that Sherlock lived in this street, he was not aware that the address was next door.

A freshly promoted sergeant had been assigned to Lestrade’s team: Sally Donovan.  She was smart, professional, had a sharp tongue, but was always wonderful with conducting interviews.  She was compassionate with the victims and hard as nails with the criminals.  Lestrade liked her style and she was a good fit for him as his second-in-command.

Lestrade had sent Donovan to check on the neighbours and interview them.  The flat to one side was empty, so she went to the other.  She knocked on the door.  A few moments later, a lanky man in his late twenties or early thirties answered the door.  He had piercing blue-green-grey eyes (she could not be sure of the colour) and a head of curly dark hair.  The man looked bleary-eyed and Donovan immediately thought, “ _Druggie_.”

Sherlock Holmes looked the woman up and down, “Yes, what do you want, Sergeant?”

Sally was thrown off a little by the greeting, but she quickly recovered.  Sherlock smirked, “Oh and new too, wonderful.  I’m in the middle of something, what do you want?”

Donovan recovered her voice and rather than asking how he knew she was new, went to asking interview questions, “Sergeant Sally Donovan. Have you seen any suspicious activity in the past day or so?”

Sherlock smirked, he left the door open and gestured for her to follow him as he made his way to his kitchen.  Sally followed and took in his flat as she listened as the man replied, “There is a drug dealer in one flat and a competitor trying to set up shop in the other.  Suspicious things happen here all the time.”

Sally was not sure what to make of that reply, but started to take notes all the same.  “And are you a customer of theirs?”

Sherlock frowned and stared her down for a few long moments, “No.”

She did not look like she believed him.  She took notice of all the equipment on his table and a skull sitting on a counter, “Or maybe you’re setting up shop yourself.  Did you arrange to kill off your competition?”

Sherlock again remained silent several long seconds, “Do you always conduct your interviews on the basis of poor observations?”

Before Donovan could reply, another voice called out, “Donovan?”

Sherlock recognized the man’s voice and grinned madly, “Ah, Lestrade, she’s in here with me.”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked as he entered the kitchen, “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock’s grin broadened at Sally’s confused expression, “I live here, Inspector.”

Sally walked to Lestrade’s side, “You know him?”

Lestrade nodded and looked at Sherlock.  He was about to ask a question when the wall behind Sherlock was rattled by bullets.  White calking, debris and dust covered everything in the kitchen, including the three people who ducked down.  Lestrade was the first to recover, “Everyone all right?”

Donovan recovered second, “What the hell was that?”

“Don’t know, you go check it out, I’ll stay with Sherlock.”

Donovan left at the Inspector’s command.  Sherlock had covered his head and leaned forward across the table and had yet to stir.  Lestrade looked at him and grew concerned, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock did not reply, but Greg could see his hands shaking in his hair, “Sherlock, you all right?”

Sherlock slowly sat up, as if in a dream, he in haled deeply and stared at his hands.  Suddenly, all colour drained from his face and he took off at a run to the loo.  Fully dressed, he got into the shower and began to wash himself.  Lestrade was quickly at his side, “Sherlock, what is it?”

Sherlock stared at him, “Can’t you smell it? Don’t you know?”

Suddenly it clicked for Lestrade.  It was not dust.  The white powder – cocaine!  “Oh, God.  Here, let me help.”

Sherlock nodded, desperate to get the substance off of him.  Lestrade helped Sherlock to strip, “Right, you shower, I’ll get some clean clothes and call an ambulance.”

“No!” Sherlock shouted much louder than was necessary, “No ambulance.  Please.  Just get some clean clothes, not from the flat.  You’ll need to shower too.”

Greg stepped out of the bathroom and radioed his team.  He asked them to bring up two sets of spare clothes. Donovan was not to touch them and they would need to be in plastic bags, set in an ambulance.  They would also need two long blankets brought up for Sherlock and himself to wrap up in as they made their way to the ambulance to change.  Hell this was going to be a lot of paperwork.

“Sorry Sherlock, this is protocol.  You don’t have to go to A&E, but we need you to be looked over.”

Sherlock sighed, but wrapped himself in a blanket when it arrived and left Lestrade to shower as well.  A few minutes later, Lestrade and Sherlock made their way to the ambulance, where they were able to change in relative privacy and the medics looked them over for injuries.  Since they found none and Sherlock refused further treatment, they were sent on their way.

Sherlock stood on a corner and just stared at his flat.  Lestrade came to stand next to him, “Met insurance will take care of everything in your flat.  We can get it all cleaned and just like new.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, “I can’t stay there again, though.”

Lestrade nodded in agreement, “Wife and I got a spare bedroom, you can stay with us a couple days until we can get things sorted out with Mycroft.”

Sherlock nodded, “It wasn’t mine… I haven’t… I didn’t…”

Lestrade rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “I know.  It’s okay. The way you panicked tells me what I need to know.  Let me sort some things here and we’ll head out.”

Sherlock looked at Greg surprised, “You can’t just… leave.”

Lestrade offered a sly smile, “Gotta make sure my witness is cared for, don’t I?”

Sherlock offered a hesitant smirk in return, “Thank you.”

Lestrade made sure Donovan was okay and then put her in charge of the scene and the rest of the investigation.  Sally looked from Lestrade to Sherlock and said, “Where are you going?”

Lestrade sighed, “I’m going to help a witness get settled in a place to sleep.”

Sally frowned, “You mean drug-addict.  Do you know he’s a freak?”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, “Explain.”

“When he opened the door he took one look at me and knew that I was newly promoted, knew that I was with the Met and I hadn’t even introduced myself.  Then, his kitchen, looked like a drug maker’s paradise.  And he had a _skull_!  A real human skull, just sitting there!  Who is he and how do you know him?”

Lestrade nodded, “He’s very good with chemistry.  He works as a private detective.  When we get cases that we’re not allowed to handle, I’ve been sending them to him.  What he did with you?  That’s just how he sees the world, all the time.  Now, I’m putting you in charge of this investigation.  I’m going to get Sherlock settled somewhere he can sleep. Tomorrow you can interview him, though I doubt he’ll have anything to add. Finally, he’s in recovery, he’s been clean for a year.  I’ll be staying with him tonight, because even though he didn’t intend to be exposed to anything, this might set him off.  He’s worked too hard to get this far.  I’m not going to see him fail because of us, understood?”

Donovan made to argue, “He’s still a freak.”

Lestrade stared at her for a long time, “You will treat him with professional courtesy when you interview him. Now, because I know him I have to remove myself from this case.  You’re in charge, Sergeant Donovan.”

She was going to argue more, but it was rare that someone newly promoted like her would get an opportunity like this, “Ah, yes, sir.”

Lestrade watched her as she went to take over command.  Other than her opinions on Sherlock, she was already doing a good job, so Lestrade returned to Sherlock and walked them to his car.

Lestrade drove back to his place and he and his wife got Sherlock settled into the spare bedroom.  Sherlock did not seem to need much and soon all three were asleep.  A few hours later, there was a cry of sheer terror, Lestrade sat upright and listened again. When he realised it was Sherlock, he went to check on the man.  Greg knocked on the door as he slowly opened it, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock was sitting up, with his legs drawn up to his chest and arms curled around them.  Greg entered cautiously, “You okay?”

Sherlock said nothing, but it was clear that he was scared.  Lestrade sat down next to him and slowly draped and arm across Sherlock’s shoulders.  Sherlock did not fight as Greg pulled him in tighter.  At last, Sherlock spoke in a soft voice, “All the hard work… pointless now.”

Greg turned his head to face Sherlock, but Sherlock had rested his head against Greg’s shoulder with his eyes closed.  Greg took a slow breath, “What makes you say that?’

Sherlock was quite for a long moment, “You were there, Inspector.  You know what happened.”  Sherlock took a breath and slowly raised a hand, “I haven’t been able to stop shaking since.”

Greg took Sherlock’s hand in his own and held him that much tighter, “Sherlock, you didn’t mean to.  It doesn’t mean you’ll start up again and Mycroft and I can make sure you don’t.”  He tried to adjust their bodies so they were both in a more comfortable position, “Look, why don’t you go to sleep and I’ll stay with you, okay?”

Sherlock followed Lestrade’s lead and nestled back down.  Soon he was asleep again.  To Greg’s knowledge the man did not wake again.  Sherlock slept until mid-morning.  The doorbell had rung and when Greg answered it, there was a man standing there with a garment bag. The tag said it was for Sherlock.  Greg figured he would not have to tell Mycroft what happened, that somehow Mycroft already knew.  Sherlock had made his way out to the living room and Greg handed the bag to Sherlock.  The card read, “ _As promised.  This incident changes nothing._ ”

Sherlock gave a sharp intake of breath and he stalked off to the room he was staying in.  When he opened the bag, a coat to replace his previous one was in the bag.  Sherlock hiccupped as he picked up the coat and hugged it to himself.  He then showered and dressed.  When he came out of the room again, Lestrade noted that he was more like himself again.  Lestrade smiled, then they went to New Scotland Yard to fill out the reports.


	2. Chapter 2

_So you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?_ – “A Study in Pink”

It only took Mycroft a few days to find a place for Sherlock.  Sherlock hated the fact that his brother was insisting to help him out in this way, but he really didn’t have another choice.  Mycroft was fearful that the cocaine had contaminated Sherlock’s belongings.  He ensured that everything went through a thorough cleaning before being sent to the new flat.  The coat had been taken care of first.  Mycroft knew the importance of it.

The new flat was on Montague Street, so closer to the centre of the city.  But transportation from here was going to be a headache.  Still, Sherlock decided that would probably help to make things a little safer for him.  While walking to any of the near-by tube stations or bus stops would not be impossible, nothing would be as convenient as when he was on Star Street.  Still, Sherlock was not in a place financially or professionally to argue with his brother.  He would just have to make the best of it.

He was in a basement flat, which would serve his purposes for his experiments without disrupting too many people. He figured it would also help with the “noise” of his violin playing.  He did not like the idea of a basement flat, but figured he could get used to it.  He feared there would be noise from the people above him, but it was relatively quiet.  He hoped he would last longer in this flat.  He was moving too much recently and he just wanted to stay put for a bit.

Lestrade came to visit him on occasion, usually when he was in the neighbourhood.  Sometimes it was because he wanted Sherlock’s help.  This was one of those times.  A body had washed up on the banks of the Thames, the forensics team was prepared to rule it a suicide, but something was not sitting right with Greg.  He could not put his finger on what, but he invited Sherlock to come take a look.  Sherlock was obviously bored, but put up a front of being busy.  Finally, he relented and Lestrade drove them to the scene and explained everything he knew on the way.

When they got to the scene, Sherlock immediately ordered everyone to stop what they were doing and freeze.  One person started to argue and Lestrade called out, “Doctor Anderson, just do what he says for one minute.”

Anderson frowned, “He’s not licenced.  Why should I do what he says? He’ll only end up contaminating the scene.  He’s not even dressed properly!”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, “Too late for that.  The way you all have traipsed all over the place.  I’m trying to preserve some sense of what evidence is left.”

Anderson stalked over to Sherlock, “Look here, Freak, Sergeant Donovan told me all about you….”

“Anderson, that’s enough!” The DI’s voice cut off the rest of Anderson’s comments, “It’s fine Sherlock.  Take a look.”

Sherlock slowly made his way across the scene towards the body while the Yarders looked on and Lestrade followed.  He put on a pair of gloves as he made his way.  Then he paused and looked around. He patted his pockets and swore softly, “Lestrade, do you have a magnifying glass?” 

“No, why?  Wouldn’t everything have been washed away by the river?”

“You’d think so, but no.  And it would be helpful to have one.”

Lestrade smirked, “Well, maybe next time you’ll remember that and bring your own.”

His tone was light, but Sherlock looked slightly hurt by the remark before he replied acidly, “If I hadn’t been dragged from what I was doing, maybe I would have been better prepared.”

Lestrade sighed heavily trying to maintain his patience, “Fine, just say what you think you see.”

Sherlock gestured over the body,  “There’s dirt covering the body.”

Lestrade shrugged, “It was in the Thames, not exactly the cleanest water.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes and it should have been washed away, but the dirt is _under_ the clothing.”

“So? The flow of the Thames could account for that.”

Sherlock huffed, “Which is why I want a magnifying glass, so I can see if there is a substantial difference.  Now, we need to wait for the body to be transported and the pathologist to supply a report.  At least ensure that the idiot does pull soil samples and have them sent to me.”

Lestrade stood there in silence until Sherlock glanced up, “Sorry, can’t do that.  This is a case, Sherlock, I’m bringing you in, but I can’t let you run experiments in your flat.”

Sherlock stood and stared at Lestrade, getting a bit angry, “Then why bother dragging me out here?”

Greg held up his hands trying to calm Sherlock down, “I might be able to set something up with the morgue.  They’ve got a lab there that you might be able to use.  I’ll contact you once the arrangements have been made.”  Greg then called out, “Anderson!  I need you to run Sherlock home.”

Sherlock looked at Greg horrified.  Greg just grinned in return, “It’ll be good for both of you.  Besides, it will keep him out of my hair while I try to negotiate lab space for you.”

Sherlock looked positively disgusted, “Fine. But only because of the lab.”

Lestrade chuckled in reply and sent the two men off.  Anderson was clearly no happier than Sherlock.  He considered it a demotion to be chauffeuring someone about London.  He gestured to the car, but made Sherlock ride in back like a criminal, “I think it would be best if we just didn’t talk.  I’ll drop you home and you can do…. Whatever it is that you do.”

Sherlock said nothing, but nodded his agreement.  Once they reached the flat, Anderson let Sherlock out.  Sherlock made his way to the door, but Anderson was right behind him, “One more thing.  I want to take a look at your flat.”

Sherlock’s forehead crinkled, “Why?”

“Because Sargent Donovan told me about your first meeting and after the bullets tore through the wall, there was no way to tell if you had any drugs yourself.”

Sherlock wanted to punch the prissy smirk off of Anderson's face, but allowed him in to do a quick sweep. Anderson was disappointed that there was nothing to find, "Well, I guess you're lucky this time. But some day, you'll slip up and when you do, we'll get you. Once an addict, always an addict."

With that Anderson turned and left. Sherlock sighed heavily, but he was relieved to be alone. He did not understand why everyone at the Yard seemed to hate him already, it was not his fault they were idiots. Lestrade had asked for his help, which should have been enough to earn their respect.  He flung himself despondently into his couch and waited for Lestrade's call.


	3. Chapter 3

_“Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be.”_ – A Study in Pink

It took Lestrade several days to secure a lab for Sherlock.  Unfortunately, Sherlock’s reputation from his time at King’s Cross had made its way around most of the hospitals that Greg contacted.  At last, he was put in touch with a Doctor Michael Stamford at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.  Bart’s was a unique place, not only was it a teaching hospital, but it also served to train members of the Royal Army Medical Corps. In some respects, this made them more open to non-traditional situations.

Mostly, Sherlock needed a sponsor; someone who would look after him while he was on the premises doing his experiments.  Greg had worked with Mike on a couple of cases when Mike had been the doctor for different victims.  Mike did more teaching these days, which made him an ideal candidate.  Greg and Mike met to discuss matters.  Lestrade debated how much to tell him, but many of his concerns were alleviated by information Stamford offered.

“I’ve seen some of his work – different reports and research projects he had been a part of while at King’s.  He’s a very talented young man.  And I know you’re coming to me because of his… history.”

Greg met Mike’s eyes, “You know?”

Mike shrugged, “Enough.  I have several questions, though.  Is he clean now?  Will he remain clean? And will he respect me as his sponsor?”

Greg looked shocked at Mike.  _Was Mike agreeable to this_?  Greg thought about how to answer the last question while he gave the first two replies, “He’s clean now.  You know ‘remain clean’ is a delicate matter.  He wants to be clean.  I think having something to do that will keep his mind busy will help him stay clean.  As to respect – I’m not sure he respects anyone, that would be between the two of you.”

Mike nodded and smiled knowingly, “I’m not saying yes – yet.  I want to interview him first.”

Greg smiled, “But you’ll give him a chance?”

Mike nodded, “As I said, he’s a bright man.  I think he could do a lot of good here.  Young doctors sometimes need someone to put them in their place and given the reputation he has, I think he would be good for that.”

Greg chuckled softly, “Don’t ever tell him that or you’ll never be able to control him.”

Mike nodded and took out a card.  On the back, he wrote down some additional information including a date and time.  He handed the card to Greg, “Have him meet me and we’ll take it from there.”

Greg stood, shook Mike’s hand and nodded, “Thank you.  I think this will help all of us.”

Greg put Mike’s card in an envelope and had one of the constables from the Yard deliver it to Sherlock’s place when they were on patrol.  Sherlock had gotten agitated at having to wait so long, but he knew there really was not anything he could do about it in his given circumstances.  He tried to keep himself busy – taking walks, mostly.  He taught himself new paths to take – including rooftops.  He was not home when the officers dropped by, but he found the business card stuck to the door-jamb.  He smiled when he read the back.  He would only have to wait a few more hours.

Sherlock was waiting outside the lab at the appointed time.  A round but happy man approached. He was in his lab coat, _so had probably not been seeing patients.  Could have been teaching, though._ He stretched out a hand in greeting, no ring.  _Not married and not living with anyone – no ring and the tie is just slightly off, no one to fix it for him._   “Mike Stamford.  Please, this way.”

Mike led them to an office that was adjoining to the lab, “Please, sit down.”

Sherlock did and for some reason, suddenly felt like he had been called to the headmaster’s office.  The difference was – Mike was smiling. “I spoke to Greg this morning about your desire to work in our labs.  I have read your other work, it is most interesting.”

Sherlock kept his facial features neutral, “Thank you.”

“I am, however concerned about the incidences during your time at King’s Cross and, of course, your addiction.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, but nodded, “I am clean.  I intend to remain that way.  Boredom is what started my addiction, so working here would help with that.  As to my time at King’s… I was young.”

Mike nodded, “Next is the matter of payment.  After all, you will be using our lab and supplies.  Those are not cheap nor are they an unlimited resource.”

Sherlock made to protest, but Mike held up a hand, “I’m not going to ask for a financial contribution from you.  What I want is your time and talent in exchange for the use of the lab.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “I don’t understand.”

Mike smiled warmly, “When you are here working on cases for the Yard, the hospital does get reimbursed for personnel and equipment used.  Having you around will save both sides in the personnel area and the Yard will take care of the equipment for their cases.  However, I’m sure you would be interested in running your own experiments.”

Sherlock tilted his head and considered the man.  He could lie to him, but did not feel that it would be necessary.  He nodded and allowed Mike to continue, “So, I will serve as your sponsor.  You will have full use of the adjoining lab and access to the morgue for cases.  In return, you will aid with research and help me in my training of doctors.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, “But I’m not a doctor, what could I possibly --.”

Mike held up a hand, “I know many consider you to be the arrogant sort.  But I’ve read your work.  And while I don’t approve of your attitude all the time, I can say your arrogance is well-earned.”

There was a twitch to Sherlock’s lips as he tried to decide if that was intended as a compliment or not. Mike smiled as he caught the subtle expression, “Now, a lot of young doctors and those in training have a problem with arrogance, I think it would be good for them to encounter someone who’s a ‘civilian’ but can teach them a thing or two about science.”

Sherlock still did not quite understand what Mike was saying, “So, you want me to…”

Mike grinned, “Be yourself?  Yes.”

Sherlock swallowed, “I… Think I can manage that.”

“Good.  Come this way, I’ll show you around the lab and the morgue.”

Mike spent about an hour with Sherlock, showing him around, getting him set up with a key to the lab and introducing him to some of the people who worked in the area.  Once Mike felt Sherlock was settled in, he left him to get to work.  Mike knew Sherlock was working on a case for the Yard, and did not want to delay the work anymore.

Lestrade had the morgue send pathology reports, as well as different soil samples from the body to Sherlock’s lab.  Sherlock was in the lab until well after midnight compiling the information and running his own tests on the various samples.  He grinned when he had enough information to contact Lestrade.  He sent a simple text: “Get information on missing women from Reading.”

At least murder was more interesting than suicide.  It only took another day and Sherlock was able to supply enough information to show that it was an abusive girlfriend.  While the case itself was rather dull for Sherlock, it was interesting to learn that the person was a serial abuser who had turned serial murderer.  While dumping the body into the Thames should have washed away most of the dirt, the murder had taken place when the victim was naked.  For sentimental reasons (probably) the killer had redressed the victim before dumping her into the river.  The clothing prevented some of the soil from the Reading area to be washed away.  Simple, really.  Dull.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must apologise, my devoted readers. This chapter is greatly delayed due to changes in my work schedule. I had intended to post this about 1.5 weeks ago. And to add insult to injury I didn't make this chapter 'live' yesterday :( I'm sorry.

_All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots._ – “The Great Game”

Things continued in this fashion for the next few months.  Lestrade started to call in Sherlock more often for consultations and Sherlock worked out of Bart’s Lab.  Mike and Sherlock became as close to friends as Sherlock allowed anyone.  Yes, everything was going quite well, until it was time for Mike to break for the Christmas Holidays.  Getting Sherlock to understand why the lab would be closed down was difficult.  Sherlock saw it as the opportunity to run some experiments considered too difficult to run at home at a time when idiots would not interfere.

It was still an argument that Sherlock could not win.  It was going to be a month of nothing to do, unless Lestrade or – he shuddered at the thought – Mycroft could distract him.  He had his own experiments at home, but they did not offer him what Bart’s did.  Though he was loath to admit it, there was something of a comfort in having contact with Mike.

Now, only three days into the holidays and Sherlock was sitting on his couch, staring at the skull.  He was clearly too bored, because he was actually trying to will the skull – Brent – to speak to him.  The skull just stared at him, almost mocking him.  He got up, put on his coat and went for a walk. 

It was two-thirty in the morning.  Sherlock knew where he was, but had no idea why he was there.  There was a sensation in his arms.  One he had not experienced in months.  It was all he could do to keep his hands from scratching at his arms to get the feeling to stop.  He looked around and realised his location and the danger of the situation.  No CCTV cameras were around, so no way to signal Mycroft’s team.  It was too late or early – depending on your perception – to call anyone. Every vein and artery in his body was screaming at him to give in to the craving.

Sherlock clumsily reached into his pockets to take out his mobile.  His hands were shaking so badly that he nearly dropped the phone.  His breathing had increased; he knew he was in trouble.  He held down a speed-dial number, not caring whom it rang. A somewhat groggy voice answered, “Hello?”

Sherlock stood there in silence for a few long moments.  It was Mycroft who answered and Sherlock was not sure if he could talk – if he _should_ talk.  “I can hear you breathing.  Sherlock, is that you?”

Sherlock could not stand the way concern pitched Mycroft’s voice, so he pressed the “End call” button. 

The sound of his brother’s voice only made Sherlock’s situation worse.  He did not know what to do.  He felt so weak, who could he possibly call?  His trembling hands were scrolling to the “recent calls” list before he knew what he was doing.  He came to a name and pressed “redial.”

It rang so many times that Sherlock thought it would go to the answering service.  He would be okay with that.  All he needed was to hear a voice.  It would be enough, right? It had to be enough.  It was only nine-thirty there… Hopefully it was not too late.  Finally, a voice answered, “Hello?" 

The woman’s voice was strangely calming.  Not as good as _his_ would have been, but the connection is enough.  Her voice shook slightly, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

Sherlock knew she was getting nervous.  But he could not make his voice work.  He finally said, “Apologies, Mrs Morris, wrong number.”

“Sherlock? Is that you?”

That stopped Sherlock from ringing off.  He swallowed thickly, “How did you know it was me?” 

Brent’s widow chuckled softly, “How many patients of my husband’s do you think would have a British accent?  Is something wrong?”

Sherlock sighed, “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Her tone took on an edge of concern, “You’re not bothering me.  Though I think the distance might be difficult for us, unless you’ve found yourself in Florida again?”

Sherlock smiled softly as he replied, “No.  Nothing like that, I just needed…”

Sherlock cut himself off; he was not sure what he needed.  Mrs Morris waited to see if he would say more, when he did not, she spoke gently, “Sherlock I… I think you should call someone who is closer to you.  They would be able to help more than I could.”

Sherlock heard her voice catch.  So many months later and she was still upset, “I shouldn’t have called.  But thank you for answering.”

“It’s all right.  Just... promise me you’ll call someone else after we hang up?”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, “I promise.  And I… I haven’t broken my promise to him or to you." 

Her voice caught again, “What promise?”

“Oh, never told either of you out loud.  But, I haven’t broken it and I won’t break this one either.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, Sherlock.  Thank you, good night.”

Sherlock nodded, even though she could not see it, “Good night.”

With that he rang off.  He went to his contacts list again and dialled Mycroft.  Mycroft had clearly not gone to bed and was probably scanning the CCTV trying to find him, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighed, “Yes.  Can… Can you send a car?”

Mycroft’s tone turned concerned, “Of course.  Where are you, I can’t find you.”

Sherlock released a mirthless chuckle, “Have them pick me up at Albion Road and Green Lanes.”

Mycroft tried to keep the surprise out of his tone, “Very well.”

With that, the brothers rang off.  About an hour later, Sherlock arrived at Mycroft’s house.  Mycroft led him to the kitchen and made some hot coca, “Do you want to talk about it?" 

Sherlock shook his head at first.  Mycroft provided the coca and they drank it in silence for a few minutes.  Sherlock cleared his throat, “I… was tempted tonight.  No idea what set me off.”

Mycroft nodded, but remained silent for some minutes, “You don’t have access to the lab because of the holidays.”

Sherlock shrugged, “I thought I was…”

He stopped, but Mycroft finished the thought for him, “Stronger than this?”  He sighed as Sherlock nodded.  Then he continued, “Sherlock, you could have just said something the first time.  I… Requesting assistance when-”

“I thought hearing your voice would be enough!” Sherlock interrupted.  The tone was more pleading than angry.

“I see.” 

Sherlock huffed, “No, you _really_ don’t.”

Mycroft nodded, “Would you like to stay here tonight?” 

Sherlock nodded.  The brothers finished their drinks in silence and then went to bed.  By the time Mycroft woke the next morning to prepare breakfast for them, Sherlock had already returned to his own flat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry this update was so long in coming. Work has been sucking my creative juices dry! :(
> 
> But I have a longer chapter and some Sherlock with Mrs Hudson tender feels to make up for it XD
> 
> * * *

_It’s the one-day a year the boys have to be nice to me._ “A Scandal in Belgravia”

That was the first scare.  Sherlock never told anyone he had called Mrs Morris.  He later again apologised to her, by way of a conversation with the Skull.  He was still fighting the draw to return to drugs each day.  He cursed Mycroft. He had warned Mycroft how dangerous it was for him to become bored.  That said he was not again as bad as he had been that night. 

A few days later, he received a card in the post.  It was from Mrs Hudson, inviting him for a Christmas meal together.  A part of him wanted to turn her down, he had not really celebrated Christmas in years.  However, it was Mrs Hudson asking, and the least he could do is spend their first Christmas back in London together.  He called her to set up a time to meet.  He even – for some reason – agreed to accompany her to the candlelight service at her church. 

He had dressed up for the occasion, wearing nice black dress-slacks, his nicest waistcoat to match and a burgundy dress-shirt to finish the ensemble.  He was not sure if his idea of a gift would be appreciated or not, but he thought he should get something for her.  After all, they had been through quite a bit together.  He only hoped he did not do anything to annoy her.  He was – nervous about this for some reason. 

Sherlock arrived at the appointed time and rang the bell to Mrs Hudson’s flat.  She came to the door in a rather nice frock and welcomed him inside.  Her flat only had a few decorations, but it was enough to give an ambiance for the holiday they were there to celebrate.  She took his coat and hung it up, then led them to the kitchen, “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.  Why don’t you open the wine you brought with you?”

While Sherlock himself did not drink often, he felt it would be odd to show up with nothing, so he made sure to bring a bottle of red wine with him.  He found his way around her small kitchen, looking for the corkscrew.  He was trying to stay out of her way at the same time.  He slowed his actions as he noticed the meal she had prepared. Mrs Hudson had cooked a feast with plenty of fixings, “How many people did you invite this evening?”

Mrs Hudson smiled up at him, “Just you, dear.  But I figured if I was going to cook, I may as well do it proper and make enough to last us a few days.”

She returned to stirring the gravy as Sherlock finished opening the wine and pouring a glass for each of them.  He offered Mrs Hudson her glass, she took a sip before setting it aside and speaking, “It’s almost ready.  Finish setting the table.”

Sherlock was not about to argue; he knew an order when he heard one.  He turned to the table, it was nearly complete, so he laid out the silverware and then started to bring the different dishes of food over.  He did not think that there would be enough room, but surprisingly, he noticed all the small dishes were, in fact, going to fit.  For some reason, this made him quite pleased.

Mrs Hudson brought the plate of turkey to the table; it had already been carved and was ready to be served.  She grinned at him, “I did that before you got here, I don’t want to hear about things you can carve into before I eat my Christmas meal.”

Sherlock blushed slightly, “You know me too well, Mrs Hudson.”

She just grinned and started to plate some of the food, “Don’t be shy, Sherlock, plate up. I’m not your housekeeper.”

Sherlock paused with a raised eyebrow, thinking Mrs Hudson would want to pray first. But at her invitation, Sherlock started.  This day was more for her, so he was going to simply follow her lead on things.  He was slow about getting his meal together; he did not want to get ahead of himself and miss some tradition that Mrs Hudson would like to observe.

It was not until they were talking comfortably about half-way through the meal that he raised the question, “I thought you would want to pray before we eat.”

She looked up at him and smiled, “Well, you’re going to the service with me, I thought that would be enough for you, for one day.”

“A compromise?” Sherlock offered her a cheeky grin.

She grinned back, “Well, it is Christmas after all.”

Sherlock relaxed greatly after that.  After they had eaten their fill, they worked on cleaning up the dishes and pans together.  All the food was packed into containers.  Amazingly, they were able to get it all to fit in the fridge, but it was clear that Sherlock would be sent home with a sack full of them after the service.

Knowing he would be returning with Mrs Hudson after the service, he decided to wait to give her the gift he had brought for her until later.  They moved into her sitting room with a glass of wine each.  She turned on her stereo to a station that played instrumental Christmas Music and the furniture was arranged comfortably near the fireplace, which was alight.

The conversation was warm and casual.  They did not really speak of what had happened to bring them back to England.  Sherlock talked about a few of his cases and Mrs Hudson gave the gossip of the neighbourhood.  Sherlock smirked, while he typically considered such conversation tedious, he actually welcomed the chatter when it came from Mrs Hudson.  She was… Well, sentiment, never mind.

At the proper time, they readied themselves for the trek to the church Mrs Hudson was planning to attend.  It was about a half-mile from the flat and would take about ten minutes to get there.  They had already discussed Mrs Hudson’s hip, but she was sure they could make it on foot.  Sherlock gently reminded her that they would also have to walk back, she just tutted then mentioned she had taken a lie-down earlier in the day.

The walk to St. Charles Borromeo Church was more pleasant than Sherlock had expected, the simple conversation from before keeping each other company along the way.  But Sherlock could not help but ask, “Charles Borromeo… I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

Mrs Hudson chuckled softly, “I’m not, dear, but I do like the way that church does their special services.  Back at Easter, for some reason I got confused going to another church and ended up there.  It was a very nice service, so I go every so often.  In some ways, they’re really different, but there’s a lot in common too.  I actually go to a lot of different churches. It’s all the same Christianity. I don’t know why they don’t get along.”

Sherlock made to respond, when Mrs Hudson gently slapped his arm to stop him, “You know what I mean.”

He looked down on her and smiled fondly.  The smile faded as he thought about her words, “Actually, I don’t.  Not really… I gave up on that kind of thinking a long time ago.”

That made Mrs Hudson stop in her tracks.  She looked up at him and then slowly and gently pulled him into a hug.  “It’s okay, Sherlock, I’m not trying to change you, I just didn’t want to go alone.”

Sherlock was shocked at the gesture and stiffened at first.  Then, he slowly brought his arms around Mrs Hudson and returned the hug.  He was quiet for a few moments letting the words wash over him. He felt… emotional.  He took a few moments to speak to be sure of his voice, “Would you mind… if I left if I get uncomfortable.  I’ll… find a place to wait…”

Mrs Hudson pulled back enough to look up at Sherlock.  She offered him a small smile, “Of course.  We can sit near the back, so you can slip out easier if you need.”

She tilted her head then took his arm and started to walk again, “At least give the music a chance, if you can’t do anything else.”

Sherlock could not help the small smile that formed, “I think I can do that much.”

Mrs Hudson gently patted his arm rather than saying anything.  Both of them continued in silence.  They found a place near the back to sit and listened to the music.  The music was a mix of contemporary and classical pieces, sometimes an array of instruments were used and sometimes a simple 4-part a cappella choir was used.  Sherlock discovered Mrs Hudson was right, he did not have to listen or pay attention to the parts of the service he did not like.  He could just sit and enjoy the music.

When it was over, he escorted her back to her flat.  They walked the first part of the way in silence.  When Mrs Hudson broke it, her voice was soft, “Thank you for staying.”

A half-smile crossed Sherlock’s lips, “The music was quite good.  I was impressed with how they combined the contemporary and classical pieces almost seamlessly.”

Mrs Hudson smiled, “It was lovely.  I liked how they had Father Christmas kneel at the manger. And of course involving all the children – for such a late service, I didn’t think there would be many there.”

Sherlock chuckled softly, “There were, though.”

She looked over at him, “It’s good to hear you laugh, Sherlock.”

They continued on again in silence.  When they reached the flat, Sherlock stayed on the step, “Happy Christmas, Mrs Hudson.”

She turned to look at him, “Why don’t you stay here tonight?  Everything will be closed tomorrow and it will be easier to carry your left-overs in the daylight.”

Sherlock was about to argue when she continued, “I’ve got some spare clothes from some renters who left them behind, they should fit you well enough.  Please stay." 

Sherlock sighed, “Oh, all right." 

The smile Mrs Hudson gave him was made it worth it.  They entered 221-A Baker Street, Mrs Hudson went to find Sherlock the clothes and he set about getting some tea and biscuits set up.  Mrs Hudson gave him the clothes and showed him the loo where he could change; she too changed and finished the tea while he got comfortable.

They were both sat in the sitting room sipping their tea when Sherlock became animated, “Oh I almost forgot!”

He sprung to his feet and went to his coat.  He reached into an inner pocket and pulled out his gift for her.  Handing it to her, he spoke, “It’s not much." 

She smiled and took it, “Since you’re staying, would you mind very much if we waited until morning to do presents?”

Sherlock smiled and shook his head.  They finished their tea and went to bed.  The next morning, Mrs Hudson opened her gift, it was a large key-ring with a little bear on it.  Sherlock spoke sheepishly, “You must have a lot of keys, since you’re letting the different flats out…”

She smiled warmly at him, “It’s perfect, Sherlock, thank you.  I have a little something for you too.”

Sherlock protested, “But you cooked and…”

She just gave him a stern look and gave the gift to him. It was obviously a book.  But he said nothing as he opened it.  He stared at it, dumbfounded when he saw the title: _The Diary of Jack the Ripper._

“I hope it’s okay,” she had never seen Sherlock react like that to anything, so she was not sure how to read his expression.

“It’s perfect.” Sherlock’s voice was soft and reverent, “Hardcover. It must have cost you…”

She waved him off, “The way I shop? Hardly, dear.  I’m just glad you like it." 

He smiled at her, “Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson.”

“And you.” Came her pleasant reply.

Sherlock stayed until after lunch and then with a sack full of food, he made his way back to his flat on Montague Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The church mentioned in this chapter is real and is the mentioned distance from Baker Street on North Gower Street. Anything else about that church or it’s services has been invented for the purpose of this story.
> 
> * * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update this time. But things are slowing down at work, and I should be able to write a bit in the coming weeks. Hopefully, I'll be able to get through Series 1 things I want to cover before Series 3 airs :/ We'll see...
> 
> * * *

_Ah, Molly. Coffee. Thank you._ “A Study in Pink”

The rest of the break passed quickly for Sherlock. He had not realised until after he had eaten most of his leftovers that he had actually quite enjoyed his time with Mrs Hudson.  Even more surprising is that he found he had missed her.  So he started to ring her with a bit more regularity.  Sometimes one of them would stop by the other’s flat.  It helped Sherlock a bit to have someone around who knew what he was going through – sort of.  At least she did not treat him any differently than she had before.

The winter holidays were blessedly free of major crimes.  Most crimes were petty thefts, nothing that would interest Sherlock.  No murders, anyway.  Sherlock’s mood improved the closer it grew to time for him to return to Bart’s.  He had to take some of the experiments home over the holidays so he could monitor them, but he would be unable to continue with them without the use of Bart’s Lab. 

Finally, on January Second, he knew that Stamford would be returning to the Lab.  That had to have been the longest three weeks of Sherlock’s life.  He was awake, dressed and even ate a small bowl of cereal.  Then, he made his way to Bart’s.  It was unusually warm for January and Sherlock had a bit of pent-up energy, so he decided to walk.  It would take him less than the thirty-minute estimate that the Internet mentioned for public transportation.

When he arrived, he entered the building and took a moment to inhale deeply.  Bart’s had a unique smell and it felt oddly welcoming.  He then made his way to his lab.  While warm enough to start transporting some of his experiments, the more delicate ones remained at his flat, until he had the money to take a cab the short drive to Bart’s.

The Lab was unlocked and Sherlock set about reclaiming his space.  He set out the few vials he brought with him and organised the remaining equipment to prepare for the rest of the items.  He was examining a slide under the microscope when Mike walked in, “Hullo, Sherlock.  How was your break?”

Sherlock just stared at Mike for a minute debating how best to answer, “It wasn’t bad.  Yours?”

Mike smiled, “But you didn’t enjoy it, I take it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I didn’t spend the entire time bemoaning the loss of my lab.”

Mike offered a friendly chuckle, “Good.  Now, I want you on good behaviour today.  We have a new pathologist starting and I don’t want you scaring her off.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, “What happened to Patrick?”

Mike shifted and Sherlock sighed, “I didn’t even work with him that much!”

Mike met Sherlock’s eyes, “I know, he… he went into rehab.”

“Oh.”

Mike nodded, “But, that could be because of you, you know…  Could’ve inspired him.”

Sherlock shifted back to looking at his slide.  His tone sounded more bland than annoyed, “I’m not a hero and I don’t need to be placated.  Next time, just say.  So, who is this new person?” 

Mike was glad for the change in topic, “Molly Hooper, she’s been working her way up through the ranks.  This will be her first time in charge of her own morgue.”

“Oh, Mike, did you have to tell me that?  Now, I’ll forever judge her as the ‘new girl.’"

“You would have done that anyway.” Mike snorted, “This way, you know ahead of time and maybe you can behave yourself when I bring her to the lab?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Yes. Fine.  May I get back with my work now?"

“No.”

Sherlock looked back up at Mike, “What? Why not?”

“Because I have a project for you.”

Stamford then set about explaining the experiments to Sherlock.  It was an interesting set, focused on some blood-borne pathogens.  Well, at least Sherlock could add it to his list of “Unusual methods of killing people.”

The project kept Sherlock busy the rest of the morning.  He had quite forgotten about the new pathologist.  So when Mike came through the lab for his part of the tour with Molly, Sherlock looked up momentarily surprised.  That was all it took for him to have all the information he needed about Molly Hooper:  mousy, doesn’t care about her appearance, knows her job and is good at it, has a cat, hasn’t had much in the way of intimate relationships, cares more about her job than any of that.

He was polite as Mike introduced them, even shaking her hand – fingertips cool, not just from spending time in the morgue, possibly from poor circulation as well.  Sherlock offered her a small smile and noticed her blush.  He thought, “ _Perfect, it won’t take much to get her to do anything for me._ ”

With that, Sherlock returned to work, he had all he needed to know about Molly Hooper.  Mike was whisking her away before Sherlock could embarrass any of them.

Molly proved to be a great help when Lestrade had cases for Sherlock.  It took a few months, but he even was able to get body parts from her for various experiments.  So how their relationship went.  Sherlock would offer a compliment or two and Molly would give him anything he needed.


	7. Chapter 7

_I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for._ “A Study in Pink”

The next two years passed rapidly. Sherlock continued to consult with the Yarders, but his time working in Bart’s gradually grew to be less as his own cases started to earn him enough to sustain himself. Mycroft continued to watch over his brother and Sherlock would be spiteful in return. These encounters became few in between as Sherlock was entertained with his business. Sherlock eventually started up a website, which had the advantage of weeding out the less-than-desirable cases. He still would keep the emails for the cases he did not work, for when he was bored even those cases were better than nothing.

As Sherlock started to gain a better reputation, Lestrade started to call him in on “proper cases.” This was to the annoyance of Lestrade’s team and the gratefulness of Mycroft. Sherlock did not seem to care, as long as he had something to do. He was still permitted to use Bart’s Lab, but he did not need it as often, since he was starting to collect his own equipment that he kept at his flat. Some of the supplies were gifts and others he was able to purchase.

He and Mrs Hudson had stayed in touch, even getting together for some of the major feast days – Christmas being special among them. Though, as Mrs Hudson had met her own group of friends, she would spend time with them. This did not seem to bother Sherlock too much and he was happier knowing that Mrs Hudson was finding her footing again. Molly had proved to be an invaluable resource for his access to bodies and more importantly, body parts.

It was just after the New Year when things started to fall apart. Sherlock had been in his flat on Montague Street this entire time and for the most part, being in the basement kept him – and others – out of the way. The experiments themselves did not seem to bother anyone. However, his landlord was keen to do spot checks on Sherlock. He knew of Sherlock’s previous drug habits. Sherlock presumed Mycroft had told him. So the landlord had gotten in the habit of performing “spot checks” of Sherlock’s flat. Now that Sherlock had actual cases, he was in the habit of keeping chemicals, body parts, and other case related supplies around the flat. 

For some reason, his landlord took issue with… everything. Sherlock decided he had enough of the situation and started to look for a new flat. He had mentioned it to Mrs Hudson, in an off-hand sort of way and she mentioned that her most recent tenant had moved out, so she had 221-B available for let. The only problem: Sherlock was fairly certain that he would not be able to pay the fees simply with the money from his business and he refused to mention anything about this to Mycroft. It was high-time he got out from under Mycroft’s foot and he knew Mrs Hudson would be supportive in such an endeavour.

Mike was in the lab when Sherlock came in to run some tests, “Hullo, Sherlock.”

Sherlock offered a small nod and went to his corner. Mike watched Sherlock for a bit, but said nothing. Sherlock was holding a small beaker, which he suddenly dropped, “Damn it!”

Mike got off his stool and came over to help, “Anything dangerous in it?” 

“No,” Sherlock huffed, clearly annoyed, “Just water.”

Mike grabbed some paper towels and came over to help mop up the spill and broken glass, “You all right, mate? This is unlike you.”

“I know!”

There was a pause as Mike stared up at him. But, rather than interrupting the silence, he finished cleaning up. Once that was taken care of, he approached Sherlock, “You know you can talk to me. Maybe I can help?”

Sherlock feigned he was too engrossed with his experiment to answer. That lasted all of ten seconds, “I found a flat I like, but I can’t afford it.”

Mike chuckled, “Welcome to adult life.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “No. Seriously. I know the landlady, we’ve worked together before. And she would probably let it to me at a rate I can afford…”

Mike started to chuckle at that, “But you like her and don’t want to take advantage?”

Sherlock looked over and glared, “It doesn’t matter, I’ll have to find something else.”

Mike shrugged, “You could give up, or maybe you could find someone to share it…”

“Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Mike just chuckled, “I have to go. But give it some thought.”

Mike exited the room, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. Sherlock was annoyed, mostly because Mike was right, but he did not want to think about possible rejection. No matter, what did he expect, that Mike would come waltzing in with the perfect match?

Of course, he was shocked and pleased when that is precisely what had happened: John Watson. Sherlock knew he had to leave quickly, before he said something that would ruin this opportunity. One look told him that John needed action and adventure, so he had to maintain the mystery as long as possible.

Still he had things to do. He was ninety-eight percent certain that John would take him up on the offer. Once he retrieved his riding crop, he went to see Mrs Hudson. After all, he did not want to take the chance of her letting the flat out to someone else. Once he had things in order, he went back to the flat on Montague Street to begin packing. If possible, he wanted to be out of there tonight.

Sherlock had sorted all of the cases, so he could focus on getting everything moved. He didn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary. Most of Baker Street was furnished, but his bed, sofa and chair, those would definitely have to come along. He decided there was no way he was willing to contact his brother. So, he would have to do this himself.

Sherlock accepted that, in fact, he decided he preferred it. After all, he did not need his brother’s henchmen pawing through his belongings. He contacted some movers to take care of his chair, sofa and bed. The other items in the flat weren’t worth the cost of moving and Mrs Hudson’s furniture was adequate. A couple months ago, he had helped a man, not much younger than himself off of a motor-vehicle homicide charge. The man happened to have been driving his truck from work – a moving company. A few hours later and Sherlock was getting himself settled properly into Baker Street. He set up his bed first, as there was no way he was spending another night on Montague Street.

The next day, Sherlock spent most of his time making his flat look as if he’d been unpacking for days, instead of just a few hours. At six o’clock that evening, he left to get supper and sign the exit papers from his flat on Montague Street. He had told Mrs Hudson that he should be back in time to meet John. His cab pulled up just as John had knocked on the door. Sherlock whispered to himself, “Perfect timing.”

He always did enjoy making an entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay. I had most of it written over Christmas break, but work this semester has again entailed me doing three people's jobs so I haven't had the creative energy to work on such things.


	8. Chapter 8

“ _Oh, I_ am _playing. This is_ my _turn._ ” A Study in Pink

Sherlock and John shared a cab to the Chinese restaurant at the end of Baker Street. They were quiet most of the ride, but Sherlock would look over at John every few minutes because he was impressed. Or at least that was as near as he could get to a word to describe it. John had saved his life by shooting the cabby, but that was not the impressive part. No, his deduction about John had surprised him. John went from being “An army doctor recently invalided home from Afghanistan” to “A fighter acclimatised to violence with a strong moral principle and nerves of steel.”

That is what surprised Sherlock. His own deductions of John had changed. Well, not changed. That would suggest his previous deductions were somehow wrong. As he had said to John, he was never wrong. However, he might say they were rash and therefore incomplete. The details of the deduction had filled out. This meant that John was _interesting_. He smiled at John as those thoughts crossed his lips.

He had not counted on John seeing the smile. John tilted his head and offered a confused sort of miniature smile in return, “What?”

Sherlock shrugged and his features became stoic again, “You hardly know me and you killed a man to save my life. It’s… impressive.”

John shrugged in return, his own smile growing, “I guess I haven’t quite adjusted to civilian life yet.”

That earned a small, yet sincere smile from Sherlock. “No. Perhaps best for both of us if you don’t.”

John chuckled softly in reply and a comfortable silence descended for the rest of the cab ride.

When they arrived at the restaurant, Sherlock paid the cab fee and they entered the building. A waiter greeted Sherlock warmly, clearly knowing him. The waiter led them to a table that had clearly been reserved for them. Sherlock told the waiter to serve whatever was left. The waiter nodded and mentioned it would be free.

John took a seat and glanced around with a smirk, “So, who did you get off a murder charge here?”

Sherlock smirked as he took off his belstaff and made himself comfortable, “No one. The matriarch of the family went into labour up near 221 and I helped out a bit.”

John’s jaw dropped, “You helped her deliver the baby?”

Sherlock might have paled a bit and squirmed. “No. I called nine–nine-nine and stayed with her until the ambulance arrived.”

John giggled at that. Actually giggled. “And they feel indebted to you forever now?”

Sherlock shrugged, “They don’t always give me free food. Tonight, since we’re here just before closing and we’ll be eating leftovers, it will be. Because if we don’t eat it, they have to throw it out anyway.”

John shook his head in disbelief and smirked. Sherlock stared at him for a long time, when John said nothing; Sherlock pulled out his mobile and checked his emails. His inbox was empty of anything new.

Their food arrived a short time later. Sherlock started to eat with great gusto, which surprised John considering how Sherlock had acted at Angelo’s. It was late which reminded John, “I’ll have to go back to my bedsit tonight, I don’t have anything at Baker Street yet.”

Sherlock smiled smugly and shook his head slightly, “You’ll find all your belongings in your room when we get back.”

John’s eyebrows shot up, “Excuse me.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Mycroft can be very… thorough with his investigations. I figured it would be easier on all of us to just allow him to do what he does.”

John huffed a bit, “Yeah. I noticed.”

He did not, however, give details on just how much Mycroft had known. He paused, “Wait a minute. You mean he’s going to go to my bedsit, go through all my belongings, pack them up, and move them all to Baker Street?”

Sherlock shrugged, obviously this was just one of those things his brother did, “Well, not him personally, he’ll send his minions to do it. Like I said, I figured this would be easier for all of us.”

“And you couldn’t bother to warn me or maybe let me decide whether that was okay or not? Which, it’s not, by the way.”

Sherlock sighed one of those sighs that people do when others are being intentionally obtuse. “Look, my brother _is_ the British Government. If he didn’t do this now, he would invite himself around to Baker Street and do his snooping then.”

Just then, more food arrived. It was a feast. There was so much food left over John could not believe it. With the arrival of the food, they turned to talking about other things and Sherlock was grateful for the distraction. When they had eaten their fill, they were provided with several bags of take-away. There was enough variety that they would be well fed for several days without it becoming too dull.

They were each provided with three fortune cookies and John offered a mischievous grin, “Okay, Mister Prediction. What do these fortune cookies say?”

Sherlock smirked, “It doesn’t matter what they say. They all come true, especially when you add ‘…At a crime scene…’ or ‘…For a case…’ to the end of whatever the saying is.”

John had to stop and think about that for a minute. “You do realise that there’s a game similar to that? After any fortune, you add the phrase, ‘…In bed.’”

Sherlock pulled a face at that. “Why would you add ‘…in bed?’ That doesn’t even make sense! I mean what if the fortune said something like, ‘You will step on the soil of many countries’? Adding the words ‘in bed’ to that, wouldn’t even make sense, but it is entirely possible to do that for a case or at a crime scene.”

John smirked in response, “Oh come on, you mean you never played that game before? With college mates or anything?”

Sherlock sighed. It was this conversation again. He thought when John had said, “It’s all fine,” to his remark about being married to his work that was the end of it. Obviously he was wrong. He sat back, “John, I obviously didn’t make it clear enough last time. The only thing that matters to me is the brain-work. Everything else is transport.”

John did not know what to make of that, “What does that even mean?”

Sherlock was growing agitated, “The body and any needs associated with the body is mere transport for the brain.”

John frowned for a few minutes trying to piece this information together. Sherlock leaned forward as he could see John working it out; he hoped John would understand without him saying anymore. Finally, John spoke, “So, if anything with the body serves as a distraction from your mind, you what? Ignore it?”

Sherlock offered a very small smile, “Yes. I don’t eat when I’m working because digestion slows me down. I use nicotine in high doses because the nature of the drug stimulates the nervous system.”

John nodded slowly, “So… being ‘married to your work’ means you don’t… do anything ‘in bed’? Because it’s not part of the work.”

Sherlock sighed with relief, “Yes! That’s exactly right.”

John shakes his head, “Then I definitely don’t get it, because it’s like you’re saying you never need to experience… that kind of release.”

Sherlock nodded again, but his relief clearly drained away, “I don’t.”

John scoffed, “What? Never?”

Sherlock shrugged and shifted uncomfortably, “I’m not, nor have I ever been, interested in sex with anyone or in any way.”

John had been taking a sip of tea when Sherlock said this and he started to cough because that was the last thing he expected to hear. Sherlock waited until John could breathe again before he continued, “And before you ask, I have no medical or psychological reasons for this.”

John continued to frown, because it was… odd as far as he was concerned. But Sherlock’s last statement begged some questions, “But to Anderson you said you were a ‘high-functioning sociopath’.”

Sherlock shifted again. Why did John have to turn into such an idiot about things? He had been doing so well, “Because it’s easier than the alternative.”

John’s expression shifted to one of almost pity and the word came out as he sighed, “Freak.”

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded once. John could understand Sherlock’s preference. John nodded in return, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re either of those. And while I don’t think I’ll ever understand how someone could not be interested in sex, I’ll repeat what I said earlier, ‘It’s all fine.’”

John and Sherlock smiled at each other. They then picked up their leftovers, said goodbye to the family who were cleaning up the restaurant and made their way back to two-two-one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay. In March I had the worst head cold I've ever had in my life and when I was finally getting better from that, I came down with the worst stomach virus I've ever had in my life. Each of these lasted a month and it took the month of May to fully recover. But now, I'm healthy and it's Summer, so I hope to be writing more!
> 
> Finally, while it's not for this story, make sure you check out [Cleo_Calliope's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope) [cover art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786687) for _I Am Not An Addict_. It is beautiful and I'm so honoured to see it!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who care about chronology:  
> I believe the main events of "A Study In Pink" takes place at the end of January 2009, so my story, [”Everyone Should See It Once”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/686667) takes place 31 December 2009. "The Blind Banker" takes place in March 2010 and I see my story, [”Oxford Street”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/686649), happening during “The Blind Banker.” 
> 
> This chapter happens a few weeks after "The Blind Banker."

John was still doing locum work at the surgery. But since the other two doctors had returned from their holidays, John was rather unemployed at the moment. Sherlock could tell John was again growing concerned about all the bills that were due. He debated bringing the subject up, but he was worried that if he did, John would bring up the meeting with Seb Wilkes, and that was something he was not keen to discuss.

Sherlock was running an experiment in the kitchen. Or at least he was pretending to be busy – after all, John seemed to be getting more restless as the day went on. Sherlock had not eaten much today and he was getting hungry. “John, why don’t you go get some take-away.”

“What?”

Sherlock looked up at John’s question. He knew John’s question was actually, “ _With what money?_ ” Sherlock sighed and nodded to where his wallet was sat on the counter, “I told you once, you can take my card, I don’t know why you don’t use it anytime you get things for the both of us.”

John stopped in his pacing, “Sherlock, can we talk –…”

“There’s nothing to talk about, John. You help me on cases and I’ve given you permission to use my card. It is within the confines of a professional relationship to have such familiarity.”

John sighed and came into the kitchen to turn on the water kettle – more because it gave him something to do. Sherlock took a few notes to find a stopping place as he realised this was going to be one of _those_ conversations. Sherlock finished about the same time as John finished the tea.

John picked up the mugs and encouraged Sherlock to move to their chairs by the fireplace. Although it was late-April, the week had been chilly, so a fire was helpful. John was grateful for the gas fireplace. It made these things easier during weeks like this with cooler weather. Sherlock sat in his chair and sipped at the tea. He waited in silence for John to continue the conversation.

John cleared his throat, debating how best to begin. “You seem a little off ever since we met Sebastian Wilkes. Any reason why?”

Sherlock did not pause at all, “’Off’ in what way?”

John shrugged to give him time to think of an answer, “More distant…”

“Well, John, you seemed bothered by the fact that when I introduced you to Sebastian, I called you my ‘friend.’ You corrected me by saying ‘colleague,’ so I presumed that is the kind of relationship you preferred."

John paused for a moment. He did not know how to respond to that. Sherlock seemed to be okay with the comment at the time. “Hold on. Is _that_ why you’ve been so upset this whole time?” John sighed heavily. “Sherlock, I didn’t mean it that way. I just… Everyone always assumes we’re a couple and I didn’t want him thinking that.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “Him in particular or everyone?”

John was about to reply when he remembered that Sherlock really is clueless about things like this. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sherlock, I could tell a mile off that Sebastian was a twat. I had no interest in him knowing anything about us, all right? And after how he treated you in his office, I was glad that I had corrected him.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed, “Why? I don’t care what he thinks. If he’s a ‘twat’ like you say, you shouldn’t care either.”

John tilted his head and considered Sherlock for a long time. “I noticed how uncomfortable you got when he talked about your days at uni…. When he called you – what he called you.”

John was not going to use the word ‘freak’ – he knew it hurt Sherlock and frankly he found it disgusting the number of people who resorted to such childish treatment of a grown man - a brilliant grown man. He took a breath, “Look, Sebastian is clearly willing to use any material he can to make himself feel better. He’s in his thirties and he’s still a bully. I’m glad he doesn’t have any more material to use against you. And that’s why I corrected him.”

Sherlock took a long sip of his tea, trying to give himself time to think. He was not sure where this new information should fit in his analysis of John. Finally, he nodded, “When you’re not able to work and you make purchases for the both of us, you should use my card.”

John could not follow Sherlock’s train of thought at that response. “Sherlock this isn’t about the money…”

But Sherlock had finished his tea and stood up. He returned to the kitchen to start on his experiment again. Clearly the matter was closed in his opinion. John finished his tea quietly, realising again how little he understood his flatmate.

About ten minutes later, John went in the kitchen, washed up the teacups and pulled out his mobile. He called the place that serves the Curry both men enjoyed and walked over to Sherlock’s wallet to use his card to place the order.

Sherlock was looking between the slides under the microscope and John. When John used his card, he smiled to himself. Everything was going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the shortest chapters I've written. I'm sorry about that, but since Sherlock doesn't like to discuss feelings, this is what happened.
> 
> The next chapter is already longer than this one and I'm not even 1/2 way through. It will probably be broken up into several chapters, we'll see...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The violin pieces that Sherlock is playing in this chapter (as well as what served as the ‘music to write to’ are): 
> 
> [Passacaglia In G Minor, for Solo Violin by Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2KNiR2qCSlw)  
> I used this version because it’s played the way I think Sherlock would play it when he’s in a reflective mood
> 
> [Sonata No. 3 in C Major for solo violin by J.S. Bach (BWV 1005)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtCq5huYzeE)  
> I used this version, because it’s the full sonata and I think the different movements are reflective of the different moods Sherlock has in this chapter.
> 
> (I majored in music, no I couldn’t pick just one.)
> 
> * * *

_“Someone changed his mind; question is: who?”_ – The Great Game

It was approximately twenty minutes after Moriarty left the Pool that Sherlock and John felt they could finally leave. Sherlock had hardly slept or eaten anything in the past five days. The only time he could chance taking care of his transport was between calls received on the “pink phone.” Well, until the past two days, when he had no deadline and so he worked himself without stopping.

Now, it was about 12:35 in the morning and as they were about to exit, the sirens of multiple rescue teams could be heard. John looked up at him and smiled, “Better late than never, eh?”

Sherlock wore an expression of disgust, “They weren’t supposed to show up at all. I suppose that means Lestrade is reading my blog too, now.

John chuckled. “Or your brother is…”

Sherlock groaned as his only reply. Secretly, he was pleased to think that, Lestrade was reading any of his posts, though he doubted Lestrade would read any of the posts that would actually be of benefit to his work.

John was right, of course. It was far more likely that Mycroft had seen the post and sent Lestrade to rescue the plans. Though, to be fair, Sherlock had returned the plans to Mycroft and had not copied the plans to the drive he had offered to Moriarty, because he’s not an idiot. Still, he supposed his brother still thought he needed to be watched closely, so he should not be surprised.

They decided to wait where they were, rather than exiting the pool: police who did not often carry guns being called into a hostage and potential bomb situation was not a good thing. Better to not give them any targets. John tried to get Sherlock to sit, but Sherlock had too much nervous energy, so he paced, albeit slower than he had after Moriarty left the first time.

A call came in over the “Pink phone.” Sherlock swiped the screen and answered, “I thought you didn’t want to play with me more tonight.”

“I really hope you don’t mean that the way it sounds,” came Lestrade’s gruff and worried voice.

Sherlock relaxed noticeably and looked at John as he replied, “This is hardly good for the nerves of two people who were nearly blown up, Lestrade.”

At that, John relaxed as well. Once it was clear that John and Sherlock were alone and the building was secured, the bomb squad entered the pool area. They secured the vest and took it away for analysis, another team retrieved the flash drive from the pool, and then Lestrade came in. He looked from John to Sherlock, “You look like hell.”

Sherlock thought it was a fair assessment, because he was not feeling so well either. All of the adrenaline was draining from his system. Lestrade knew that he had to give them some orders. “Come on, the paramedics will want to look both of you over and then I’ll drop you at Baker Street.”

They were making their way to the ambulance when Sherlock nearly collapsed. The only reason he did not land on the ground was because John had been watching him and had expected it to happen. The paramedics wanted to rush Sherlock to hospital, but John assured them he only needed some orange juice and an energy bar.

It took another fifteen minutes for Sherlock to feel better. John did his best to keep the paramedics from hovering, even though he was a doctor, he could only do so much. In addition to the requested food and drink, they had provided the shock blanket and insisted that Sherlock wear it. Sherlock felt like his brain was turning against him. He really was not sure what was going on around him. There really was only one thing that mattered: John was safe. John had not been killed.

On the way to the flat, John asked Lestrade to stop at the Chinese place on Baker Street. He got out, picked up an order, and before long, they were home. Lestrade offered to help them into the flat, but both John and Sherlock refused. He sighed, “Right, well I’ll be around tomorrow to get your statements.”

With that, he drove off. Sherlock sighed heavily as he made his way up the stairs. “I hope he calls first, I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

John chuckled softly, “Really? I’m amazed when you sleep for more than four hours at a time.”

Sherlock merely shrugged in reply. They ate their food in silence, neither in a frame of mind to be able to talk about what had happened and then they went to bed. Sherlock did not fall asleep, though. He could not sleep. He _would_ not sleep. Sherlock needed to protect John. Something he had failed to do during this little “game.” But, he would tonight, because he had done his research on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in military personnel and if anything would be a trigger for John’s nightmares, this experience would do it.

That was what Sherlock told himself. The truth however, was far darker. Sherlock had a feeling he had not experienced in years. It was the call of adrenaline. The pleading nature of chemicals to “make everything all right.” He was not sure he was strong enough to resist it. The lie was more comforting. He was about to get out of bed and start pacing, which is when he heard it: John was awake and pacing upstairs. He could tell John was trying to be quiet, but Sherlock’s keen senses were hyper-aware at the moment. Had Sherlock been asleep, he would have never heard it.

After about ten minutes, Sherlock pulled himself out of bed and went to the main room. He pulled out his violin, not really intending to play it – it just gave him something to do and it kept him in the flat. He listened for John the entire time. He figured the other man would come down to sit with him. Again, if he were being honest with himself, he _wanted_ John to join him. The agony of silence was too much for him to endure. He slowly started to play a piece. Normally, he would play _Passacaglia In G Minor_ a bit faster, but he was in a reflective mood and the point was to calm John down and hopefully keep Mrs Hudson asleep.

A minute or so into the piece, Sherlock stopped and listened. He could hear that John had opened his door and had come down a step or two. Sherlock stood, faced the window and began again. This was not a performance, nor was it intended to give John any insight to his own stormy mood. He could tell when he was getting lost in his thoughts, because he would speed up the piece to match his own chaos. Then, he would remember himself and slow back down. The casual observer would probably mistake it as part of the piece, since this work does give the feeling of changing tempo throughout it.

He finally finished and listened. After a few minutes, he heard the creak of the stairs as John made his way back up to his room. Sherlock sighed, realising he had failed in calming John. He sighed as he put the violin away. He practically threw himself into the sofa; his mood darker than it had been when he started. Sherlock did not sleep. He figured John did not sleep either, though at least he had not had any nightmares. That was of little comfort.

The next morning, Mrs Hudson provided breakfast for the two men and informed them that the new windows would be arriving later in the day. John thanked her, but Sherlock remained silent. She left quickly, since she could since both men were in a ‘mood.’ The food remained practically untouched. John forced himself to eat a little from each plate, so as not to offend Mrs Hudson.

Lestrade called just as John was putting the food into the refrigerator. Sherlock decided that it would be best for them to be out of the flat when the windows were being replaced. So, they did what each needed to get ready and then went to New Scotland Yard.

They arranged it so Sherlock would go first. This was a strategic move on Sherlock’s part so that he could convince Lestrade to let him hear John’s interview. Of course, Sherlock could ask John the questions himself, but he figured it would be better to simply listen in. Sherlock did not have much of his own information to add. Since it was all tied up with the other cases, there was not a lot more he could contribute. After a bit of haggling, Lestrade agreed to let Sherlock listen to John’s interview, but he made it clear that Sherlock could not interfere in any way and he had to watch from the observation room. This suited Sherlock just fine, since he had no idea how to broach the subject with John anyway.

It was hard for Sherlock to listen to John’s interview. This felt like a failure to him and he blamed himself for everything that had happened to John. Unfortunately, John did not have much to offer. He had been drugged unconscious before he could see anyone and when he came to, there was no one around him.

The entire process took about two hours and then they were sent back to the flat. Luckily, the windows had been installed and even the gas line had been repaired. This was good, because it had been chilly at night, so they could run their fireplace again.

Both men were subdued and they spent the rest of the day wrapped up in their own thoughts. John went to bed early that night and Sherlock took his place on the sofa. He knew John’s nightmares would start, he just did not know when and he wanted to be ready… That’s what he told himself anyway, the fact was, Sherlock did not feel safe for the first time in a very long time. The explosion across the street and the fact that Moriarty was still free made him less than comfortable. Sherlock spent hours in his mind palace, testing different scenarios and trying to see how the situation could have gone differently. It was a fruitless effort, every other solution he could identify ended up with too many people dead. Specifically, John would be dead.

It was about two o’clock in the morning when Sherlock heard them. John’s muffled sounds of distress floated down to the sitting room. So Sherlock pulled himself off the couch and went to his violin. He did a quick check to make sure it was in tune and then, whilst looking out the window over Baker Street, he started to play. It had a mournful quality to it, which paralleled Sherlock’s mood.

He finished the first movement and started the second. This one was faster, but also more challenging, which his mind needed, even if the quicker pace would not settled John’s or his own nerves. The additional focus needed was good for Sherlock, though. This forced his thoughts to narrow, rather than to explode everywhere as if the bomb had gone off in his brain. It was a welcomed relief. He was so focused that he missed John coming down the stairs and had taken his chair to listen to Sherlock play.

Sherlock stopped at the end of the Largo Movement. Mostly, because he knew the Allegro Assai would take more effort than he had the energy for at the moment. He let the last note hang in the air. He heard a slight sniffle behind him and instead of turning around he slowly put his violin away. Finally, he turned and took a seat in his chair. He said nothing allowing John to control this conversation.

John too remained silent for a long time, trying to sort through the emotions that were welling up within him, “That was beautiful.”

Sherlock nodded in reply, “It was meant to help you sleep… Not drag you down here.”

John sighed, “I… couldn’t. Every time I close my eyes I…”

He broke off, uncertain how best to end that statement. Neither men were good at expressing their emotions, but at least Sherlock had his music. All John had were whatever thoughts and nightmares haunted him.

After another few minutes of silence, Sherlock spoke softly, “You gave me permission to end both of our lives… why?”

Sherlock genuinely will never understand why John nodded his head, when he silently asked for permission to shoot the bomb, knowing it would lead to the death of both of them. John was silent for a moment before replying, “Because I trust you. And because we already knew of how many lives they were willing to take. It was better to end it then, even if it meant the end of our own lives.”

Sherlock nodded, accepting John’s reply, “Is it worth it?”

John raised an eyebrow and so Sherlock continued, “Dealing with the demons you now face; the lack of sleep; our safety being called into question; is it worth it?”

John tilted his head, considering the other million questions Sherlock was not asking, “I won’t lie. It would have been better if we had been able to put a stop to him. But, we did the best we could and that’s all anyone can ask of anyone, really.”

Sherlock nodded, but remained silent, so John continued, “Sherlock, I… need a vacation a bit of a break. Sarah has some time off work coming up and we’ve been planning a trip to New Zealand for a vacation. I still want to go… if that’s all right.”

Those words were like a lance through Sherlock’s heart. The last thing he needed was a break. If he took a break, right now? At this point? It would only lead to one place and he was unwilling to go there. But he could see the desire on John’s face. John needed this and he had done enough to this man already. He nodded in reply, “You hardly need my permission, John. I hope the two of you have a good time and that the rest will help.”

John was not sure that Sherlock was being honest, “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Of course, it’s not like you won’t be back, right? It’s just a vacation, I’m sure I can manage around here. How long?”

John shrugged, “A couple of weeks.”

Sherlock grinned, “Oh well, that’s hardly any time at all. Everything will be fine.”

John still wasn’t sure he believed Sherlock, but he knew better than to try to press, “We’ll leave on Saturday, then.”

Sherlock nodded and John stood and started to make his way back to his bedroom. But he paused, “Thanks, for the music. It really was beautiful.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: drugs, drug use, heavy on introspection: loneliness, self-doubt, feelings of failure, etc. I've tried to keep this as a "T and up" rating, if you think I should change it, please let me know.
> 
> * * *

_The siren call of old habits._ – “His Last Vow”

John left for New Zealand with Sarah and Sherlock tried to distract himself. He was failing miserably. He tried smoking; Lestrade did not have any cases he was interested in taking; Molly had given him the head, but said that it would be awhile before she could get more parts for him; and Mrs Hudson was getting ready to go visit her sister. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He left to get the only thing that he knew would distract himself properly: cocaine. It was Sunday evening.

He dug through his bottom drawer – filled with clothes that he rarely used and bits of items he used for disguises. Once he was dressed, he put on his Belstaff and made his way out. He could not make contact via phone, or Mycroft would be alerted. And if he left his coat behind, it would send up red flags. So, he did as many things as normal as possible.

He had the cab drop him off near Spring Gardens on Kennington Lane. It was in close walking distance to Vauxhall and he figured he could make some contacts there. He found a place he could store his Belstaff, since he did not exactly want his Homeless Network to know what he was doing. It did not take him long to acquire what he wanted. There were no questions, no hard looks. If anyone from the Network happened to recognize him, they would assume he was working a case. With that, he made his way back to retrieve his coat and get back to Baker Street. He asked the cabbie to take the long route – he did not want to return too soon and create any suspicions.

Even just having the vial in his pocket helped. He could somehow breathe again. Once he returned to the flat, he hung up his coat, changed into pyjamas and put on his favourite blue dressing gown. The entire time, the vial was in sight. Sherlock then brought it with him into the sitting room. He placed it on the fireplace mantel and then started searching the bookshelves for a very specific book.

He grinned as he pulled down a rather innocuous looking copy of _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_. He enjoyed such books because while he was not the kind to ruin books, ones like these were a dime a dozen and people rarely wanted to mess with them – simply for the weight. This was advantageous for Sherlock, since it meant people never looked through it. If they had, they would have discovered that this was a special hiding place. He never got rid of the tools of his non-addiction. He just hid them. It was somehow comforting to know that he had them to return to if he needed them. And now? He needed them.

He had put John in danger; fifteen people had died; three additional people greatly terrorised – not to mention the police involvement, the public places where those people were kept and everything else. He had utterly failed. And now, John had run off to New Zealand with Sarah. Who knew what might happen now. If John were smart, he would never come back…

He had been clean for five years. In those first few months, five years seemed so very far away and now? Now. Five years had come and gone. He looked over at his Skull. Well, Brent’s Skull. It was sat on the mantle opposite from where he had placed the vial. The choice was now elegantly on display. He stared at the skull, looking for an answer. It was mockingly silent. “ _Well, better than disappointed_ ,” Sherlock thought.

He picked up the Skull and folded himself into his chair, with it sitting on his knees. They started a staring contest. God, it was like those first silent days in rehab: a battle of wills. As Sherlock stared at the skull, his imagination supplied the muscle structures, the skin the eyes… in essence, he could see Brent’s face superimposed on the bones sitting on his knees.

“I know what you’re going to say. But I just need a little. Just to get me over this hump. I can’t do this to myself.”

In frustration, Sherlock yanked at his hair, pulling it until hit hurt. “The flat’s too quiet. I need the distraction. Or more accurately, I need my brain to turn off and no one is supplying me with the opportunity. I have to supply my own.”

He stared at the Skull, as if he could hear it speaking back to him, “Well, you don’t have to watch.”

With that Sherlock put the Skull back on the mantel, found a handkerchief and covered its face. Finally, he picked up the book and the vial and stormed off to his bedroom. Upon arriving, he closed his door and placed the vial on the nightstand and the book on the bed. He climbed into bed and pulled the book onto his lap. He slowly opened it and there, inside, were the tools of this trade. 

He stared down at them, like looking at a long-lost friend. He supposed that in a way they were. He prepared his arm and the syringe. And with a calming breath, he performed the injection. It had been so long, that he was not sure how he would react. He lay back so that he could just escape for a while.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock slowly woke to a beeping noise. It took awhile for his brain to catch up with the rest of him, but when it did, he slowly opened his eyes. It was a struggle because the bright lights made a headache he had not been aware of worse. He tried to raise his arm to cover his eyes, but the effort was met with resistance. That got his attention quickly and he forced himself to open his eyes and take in his surroundings.

He was met with what was clearly a hospital room. His hands were restrained. Standing in one corner with his beloved Belstaff coat stood Mycroft. Mycroft looked less than pleased. Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned softly. Mycroft approached as he spoke, “Well, brother mine, I hope it was worth it.”

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes again, “What day is it?”

“Wednesday. You’ve been incoherent since I found you late Sunday night. They tell me you were lucky I was watching you.” 

Sherlock again tried to raise his hand to his eyes and was again met with resistance. “What is this?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he spoke, “I thought it was fairly obvious – your hands are restrained. You were being combative with the doctors and nurses trying to treat you and they were worried about you harming yourself.”

Sherlock sighed heavily and gave up fighting the restraints. “What are you doing with my coat?” 

Mycroft offered an insincere smile, “You mean your ‘sober chip’? I’m afraid you have lost the rights to it. You will have to again earn the rights to it.” 

Sherlock struggled to sit up against the restraints again, “You can’t do that! John will find out! He can’t know!”

“Then, brother mine, I suggest you get to work so that everything can return to normal.” 

Mycroft gave Sherlock a nod, it was something that took Sherlock awhile to realise. Mycroft was not going to tell John anything more than necessary about this situation. So, if Sherlock wanted to protect this part of his privacy, he would have to get himself out of hospital before John returned. He had ten days.

It was doable, if he started today. Before Mycroft reached the door, Sherlock blurted out, “The intensive program. I know they have them. It was mostly stress that did me in. If I can learn to manage that…”

He broke off; his desperate plea had been made. While he had explained away the cause for his slip, he was also proposing a solution – something he would have never done in his former life. Mycroft cocked his head, deducing his little brother. Finally, he nodded, “I will make the necessary arrangements. But you must work the program, Sherlock, or you may end up a great deal longer than ten days.”

Sherlock nodded his understanding. He did not have much of a choice, but he would do this for John, because he did not think he was strong enough to do it for himself. But John could not learn about this. At least not right away. He needed time to prepare him and to explain that he could control it. Mycroft had just over reacted.

While Sherlock did work the intensive program, his release was conditional upon further therapy. He did not like that idea, but since he had mentioned stress as one of his triggers, it could not be helped. He was grateful that he was assigned to Ann, who had worked with MI-5 but only knew him through brief news reports. Whether she knew Mycroft was a different matter and one that neither of them addressed. Still, it went better than Sherlock expected and so he did not argue with the additional outpatient visits that were requested. It would be easy enough to make the meetings without telling John why they were necessary.

Upon learning that Sherlock was willing to continue with out-patient therapy for several weeks, Mycroft had the coat delivered to Baker Street ten minutes before John returned.

 

* * *

 

Ann eventually made an agreement with Sherlock. She would only require one more follow-up debriefing type appointment if Sherlock told John what had happened and the two men talked about it. Sherlock was less than optimistic, since he had learned of John’s breakup with Sarah. But, after taking a day to consider all of his options, he agreed.

It was a Saturday and John had noticed that Sherlock had been on edge all day. Finally, he put down the book he had been reading and looked expectantly at the man. Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow in response. John smirked and shook his head, “All right. Out with it, you’ve been itching to tell me something all day.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, “I…”

He stopped speaking. Instead he stood and walked to the bookshelf, pulled out his book of _Complete Works of William Shakespeare,_ and handed it to John. John looked confused and went to accept the book. He was shocked at its weight. Sherlock made a gesture that John should open the book, which John did. Sherlock watched John’s expressions carefully, waiting to see how John would react. John remained silent for a long time. Finally, he nodded and closed the book, “…And is this what you were doing, when I was on vacation?”

Sherlock was sat on his chair and had curled himself into a ball as he waited for John to speak. He nodded, “I… was given a bad batch, I think. Mycroft found me and got me to hospital in time.”

John nodded, accepting Sherlock’s story, “Have you been using the entire time I’ve known you?” 

Sherlock’s jaw dropped in shock, “What? No! I haven’t! I’ve been clean for nearly six years.”

John nodded again, “Do you want to tell me what happened? What was worth breaking your sobriety?”

Sherlock frowned, “You.”

John shifted and Sherlock could sense John’s anger rising, but he knew he had to finish; he had to make John understand, “I let you get kidnapped. I put your life in danger. I nearly blew both of us to kingdom come. And then… you just left…”

John did protest at that, “I told you I’d be coming back!” 

Sherlock’s face crumpled. He was trying to hard to keep his emotions in check and he felt like he was failing everyone. His reply was so soft that John could barely hear him. “I know.”

John took a breath that was clearly trying to force himself to calm down. He nodded for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock sighed as he began, “I… I didn’t understand what was happening. My thoughts were circling around. And I realised I couldn’t protect people, the fact that people were getting killed, even though I had solved the case… I couldn’t… It was too much. And you weren’t here. Mrs Hudson went to her sister’s and I…”

He trailed off again, unsure how to continue. John set the book aside and leaned forward. He was quiet for a long time, trying to piece the situation together – trying to hear everything Sherlock was not saying. “So, it’s like when you don’t eat when you’re working? When you’re on a case. You don’t let yourself feel. You can’t let yourself ‘care’ because… Caring about them won’t help you to save them…”

John broke off as the realisation from Sherlock’s words weeks earlier broke through. John took a deep breath. “And when the case is over…. When you’re in one of your moods…. That’s how you choose to deal with it?”

Sherlock remained quiet as John puzzled it out. Finally he nodded, “I’d never been involved in a case where so many people had died and it was my fault. In fact, I don’t know that I had ever worked a case where any innocent people had died because of me.”

John stood up at that and stalked to the window behind Sherlock’s chair. He was angry. Angry at the level of blame Sherlock was placing on himself; with how blind he had been to the amount Sherlock did care; at the fact that Sherlock felt it was better to turn to drugs rather than tell him what was happening. He turned back around, staring at the back of Sherlock’s head – it did not look like the man had moved at all.

He knew it would be silly to try to convince Sherlock that those people who died had not died because of him. John knew that Sherlock knew in his head he was not guilty of their deaths. But, Sherlock was still logical. They were not talking about his guilty feelings. That only came up because it had led to the drug use and that was the issue they were talking about. 

John stepped forward so he was standing right behind Sherlock as he spoke, “I’m glad you told me about all of this. But next time, please consider contacting me as an alternative to turning to drugs.”

With that, John lowered his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, gave a brief squeeze, and then he walked over, picked up the book and left the room.

Sherlock never asked what John had done with the book. However, the next day, Sherlock found a similar book of _Complete Works_ on the bookshelf. This one was a legitimate book. He smiled to himself; he might have to start considering John a friend. He had a friend; what an interesting concept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s reaction to Mycroft about his drug use in “His Last Vow” as well as the deep concern that John and Mycroft held for Sherlock at Christmas during "ASiB" seemed a bit extreme and while I’ve had this scene in mind since I introduced the coat as his “Sober Chip,” I had write this scene so that the emotions expressed later make sense.
> 
> Also, FINALLY into Series 2 YAY!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s blog is not reliable for dates (IE: The wedding is dated as August in the blog, but May 18th on the invite in the show). I had briefly posted my timeline for the series earlier, but the discussion of that completely derailed the comments. I’m only mentioning it briefly here for continuity sake. “A Scandal in Belgravia takes place between May 30th 2010 (We get this date from John’s blog) and mid-September 2011 (at a guess, based on minor references in the show). 
> 
> For this chapter, this takes place the day after they meet Irene. I used John's Blog for that estimated date, so this occurs Mid-Late September.
> 
> Content Warning: Discussion of asexuality and general misconceptions people have about it. This includes the topics of sex and sexual assault.
> 
> * * *

_Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex…_ _Sex doesn’t alarm me._ – “A Scandal in Belgravia”

Sherlock sighed with relief after Mycroft left. He finished his song and put his violin away. Irene had stopped texting him. Good. Maybe now he could focus on other things. He did not understand how could he have been so stupid as to fall for the “touching the opposite arm” trick. He and Mycroft used to do that a hundred times a day when they were little. Yet, throw a woman into the mix and he misses it entirely. He deserved to be drugged since he fell for something so obvious.

“’…You know?’ What did Mycroft mean by that?”

Clearly, John had been speaking, but Sherlock so wrapped in his own thoughts missed most of what he was saying. He had to cover that up. “Well, you know my brother. He will do anything to get a rise out of me.”

John chuckled in response, “You’re not entirely innocent, Sherlock. You were behaving badly too.”

Sherlock shrugged off John’s comment, but remained stoic. After all, he had explained all of this when they first met. John should understand by now. John stopped reading the paper again and looked over at Sherlock. “It’s just with… Everything Irene said later… About you not knowing where to look. Just…” 

Sherlock sighed, “John, I don’t ask you about your sexual escapades -.”

“No, because you can deduce them all,” John cut him off, “And I’m not asking for details. But… well, it took me an effort to not look… where I shouldn’t look, but you…. You weren’t phased at all. And I know you talk about ‘transport’ and not letting your physical needs distract you, but she was naked and you didn’t even…”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock huffed and catapulted himself out of his chair. He started to pace because he did not want to have this conversation again. He had already explained it, he thought.

John’s mouth dropped at Sherlock’s reaction. He took a minute to gather his thoughts before he spoke again. “Okay, see, now I don’t get why you’re acting like this. Before when we talked about it, I just thought you were celibate or something.”

Sherlock stopped and stared at John for a long moment. “Then you understand nothing.”

John pulled a face of part confusion and part offence, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock ran his hands over his face in frustration. He then went back to the table and again sat next to John. He took a deep breath, “John, you’re a medical professional. So I’m going to appeal to that part of you for what I’m about to say.”

John gave a nod in acceptance. Sherlock continued slowly, “If I were interested having sex with women, what would you call me?”

“Heterosexual.”

“And if I were interested in men?” 

“Homosexual”

“And if I were interested in both?” 

“Bisexual.”

“And if I were interested in neither?”

John pulled a face, “Neither? I’d say, we should get you checked for hormonal imbalances or maybe see if there was some physical cause for it.” 

Sherlock looked up and glared at John for a long moment. He had to force himself to stay at the table. “You’ve helped me enough to know that there is no physical ailment that would cause me to have no sexual interest in anyone.”

John was dumbfounded. Even with his entire medical training, he couldn’t parse what Sherlock was saying. “Let me get this right. You have no interest in having sex with anyone, ever?” He paused momentarily, “How does that even work?” He paused again when Sherlock’s glare deepened, “No. Sorry, that came out wrong. But, I want to know. I mean in medicine there are two prefixes that mean ‘none’ or ‘lack of.’ A – like A-Typical and Non- like Non-specific. I just… I’m a doctor and I’ve never heard of non-sexual or asexual. Well, asexual reproduction, sure, but not as an orientation or anything.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. He hadn’t really had a conversation like this since Brent. “I tried. I wanted to be ‘normal’ and ‘not broken.’ So I tried to be what was considered ‘normal’ at the time. I tried to show interest in girls, and later, boys. I tried to kiss and hug… and more. But none of it did anything for me. I found everything to be forced, imposed and… messy. It took a long time to realise that I would just never connect with men or women.” He shrugged, but continued, “Irene is a beautiful woman, but she was using sex and her body as a tool and weapon and… that does nothing for me. I have about as much interest in looking at wallpaper.”

John chuckled softly at the last comment, then realised that it probably was not something he should laugh at, “Sorry. So, ‘sex doesn’t alarm you’ because you have no interest in it anyway. That’s… Wow. But… you’ve experimented and tried?”

Sherlock shrugged again, “It was the only way to be sure. I’m a scientist, John. But, the results were always the same, no matter who the person was.” 

John nodded. He could accept that, he guessed. It was still odd. But he was also a doctor, “So, can I ask… did everything work right?”

Sherlock offered a small smirk, “You mean, ‘Did I have a “bio-chemical response to stimulus?”’ Yes. Everything functions as it should, but I have about as much interest in it as I do in watching paint dry. Meaning I observe it from a scientific point of view, but I never think, ‘I can’t get enough of this.’”

This was honestly more about Sherlock than John ever wanted to know, but it made sense, sort of. “You never correct people when they indicate we’re intimate, though.” 

“Why should I? They’re wrong and will believe whatever they want to believe anyway. My orientation is none of their business….” He broke off as he collected his thoughts, John waited patiently, “Besides, given how you, a medical professional reacted, how do you think anyone else would respond to this?”

John tilted his head in thought, “If you want to share, I’ll listen.”

Sherlock’s voice went very quiet, “I’ve been told by several men and women that I just haven’t had sex with the right person yet. And one time in high school, I was beat up because they thought I was gay. And in college… I was at a party and a group….”

Sherlock stopped speaking and John swallowed thickly as he imagined the outcome. Sherlock’s hand rested on the table-top and John reached out slowly to rest his hand over it. Sherlock snapped his hand away before John could touch it. And he continued to speak, “Nothing happened.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, are you telling me you were nearly gang raped and you’re calling it ‘nothing?’”

Sherlock shrugged, “No. I’m saying nothing happened. And that’s the truth. I had a… friend… she faked having symptoms of alcohol poising, and we were able to leave. She was good to me, never left me alone at parties after that. She was very interested in me – ended up being one of the people I experimented with. But she understood me in ways the others didn’t. After we talked about it, we would serve as each other’s dates when that was needed.”

It was John’s turn to wipe his face with his hand. He had no idea. And this was all a bit much for him. “Okay, I’m glad you had someone to help you back then. And I’m glad you weren’t hurt in that way.”

Sherlock just stared at his hands, he really didn’t know what else to say. John took a cleansing breath, “And Sherlock? It’s all fine. Really. I don’t understand it because it’s not my experience, but I believe you. And if you never want to talk about this again, that’s okay. But… if you do want to talk about it again? I’ll listen.” 

Sherlock nodded at that, “Thank you.”

There was nothing more to say. But, Sherlock secretly hoped he would not have to talk about this ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m adding this “female college friend” to the ‘canon-compliant’ version of _Am Not An Addict_ , so you will get to meet her there XD (Of course, future series might change if she’s canon-compliant or not, but that’s the nature of fan fiction.)


	13. Chapter 13

_How are we feeling about that?_ “A Scandal in Belgravia”

“I don’t need hospital! John can take care of me.”

Sherlock was annoyed with Lestrade and the other officers. All he wanted to do was get home. It did not matter to him that he had taken a crack to his head. Sure, it was bleeding badly, but that was normal for head wounds.

Sherlock had chased the criminal down the alley, but had not seen the partner – John was supposed to be tracking her. So, when Sherlock turned a corner, he took quite a hit to the back of his head. He was dazed, but he could not recall loosing consciousness, so he felt like everyone was overreacting.

In the end, some of Lestrade’s team had blocked the criminals’ escape so they were caught. That was all Sherlock really cared about. John had been tending to some minor wounds that several of the officers had gotten during the chase, but now he was done with that.

Lestrade glared at his Consulting Detective, “Sherlock you’re bling ridiculous. Just let us take you to be looked over.”

John approached, “What’s the problem?”

Lestrade faced his friend, “Sherlock is refusing treatment.”

At that, John turned to Sherlock and gave him a look that said he better start explaining himself. Sherlock sighed. “Look, I already told them, it’s not that bad and you can take care of it. I just want to get back to Baker Street.”

John gave the head wound a once over, “What were you hit with?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in agitation, “Obviously, since it’s the back of my head, I have no way to know.”

John smiled to himself, Sherlock seemed to be okay at this point, “When was your last tetanus jab?”

Sherlock groaned as John touched a sensitive spot. “You gave it to me.”

“Okay, so it was fairly recent. You shouldn’t need a booster, then.”

John finished his exam and looked between Sherlock and Lestrade. “Well, I’d prefer if he saw someone at hospital, and it’s hard to tell in this light if stitches are needed or not, but given his attitude it might be better if you just drop us home.”

Lestrade nodded once and gave Sherlock a stern look, “Okay, but only because the doctor said.”

Twenty minutes later, the boys were making their way up the seventeen stairs to their flat. John ordered Sherlock to take off his Belstaff and jacket, then get to the loo where he can work on the wound. Sherlock did as he was told, still annoyed. John took off his own coat and then retrieved his medical kit from his bedroom.

Sherlock had closed the lid of the toilet and was sat on it. John placed his kit on the counter of the sink and angled the light to get a good look at Sherlock’s wound. “I would’ve preferred you going to A&E. Head wounds can get infected easily…”

Sherlock looked up at John through his fringe, “They would’ve made me shave my head.” 

John chuckled in a disbelieving manner, “All this because you’re vain?”

Sherlock shrugged, “You’ve gotta have a way to do it without….”

“Maybe. Hold still.”

John sighed again and started to mutter to himself. Sherlock zoned out a bit. John then started to dig through his bag. “Okay, we need to flush the area and I think I can use skin adhesive, but I’d like to cut a little bit of hair around the wound so that it sticks properly.”

Sherlock blanched slightly, “How much?”

“Not much. Just enough so the adhesive sticks properly. Once it’s dried, you’ll be able to shower, but don’t scrub your head around the wound, okay?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, the event was starting to catch up to him. The whole process only took about five minutes. Once the first coat was dry enough, John even added a second coat. Then he packed up his things and left the loo to let Sherlock shower. “Do me a favour and leave the door unlocked? If you fall or pass out, I want to be able to get here quickly, yeah?”

“I won’t be long. I just want to get the blood off.”

With that, John left Sherlock to it. 

John planned to sleep lightly and check on Sherlock often for concussion. Luckily, he had the next day off from surgery, so he could rest more and keep an eye on Sherlock. The first check went well. But the second time, John had a hard time rousing Sherlock. Sherlock was usually a fairly light sleeper, so this seemed strange. John then wondered if Sherlock was putting him off, so he went to the kitchen, found a pan and wooden spoon, and returned to Sherlock’s room while banging them loudly.

Sherlock sat bolt upright, “What!?” He took a breath and looked around, “John? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

John sighed with relief when Sherlock woke. “Heart attack? No. Just making sure you’re not about to slip into coma.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started to lay back down, “Ah, no. I think you need to stay awake for a bit.” 

“You’re always trying to get me to rest or eat and now you want me to stay awake?” 

John offered an exasperated sigh, “Sherlock. When you’re healthy I want you to eat and sleep so you can stay healthy. But when you’re not I want to do what I can to get you healthy.”

Sherlock just glared in reply for a long moment. “I though people healed better when they sleep.”

“Yes, but let’s not have you slip into coma, all right? Come on, I’ll make some coffee and we can watch some telly.”

Sherlock begrudgingly got out of bed, dragged his comforter to wrap it partly around himself, and followed John to the sitting room. The James Bond film _Golden Eye_ was playing on the telly and since they had never finished watching all the James Bond films, John thought it was a good choice. After all, Sherlock had ended up enjoying the films the last time.

While John was busy with the coffee, Sherlock took over the couch. He was starting to have a proper sulk, but the film seemed interesting enough. John joined him a few minutes later with two coffees and a bowl of popcorn. “Budge up.”

Sherlock shifted enough to give John space to sit and then they watched the film. Sherlock sipped at his coffee, knowing the caffeine would aid in his headache. He had not mentioned it to John, because if John was going to make him stay awake, he doubted John would give him any paracetamol. As the film played on, Sherlock grew tired once again and ended up leaning his head on John’s shoulder.

John did not mind, because he could still look to see that Sherlock remained awake. When Sherlock had remained awake through the entire film, John sighed with relief. He did not even have to remind Sherlock to stay awake. When _Tomorrow Never Dies_ came on, John chuckled softly, “It seems to be a marathon. Wanna watch this one too?”

Sherlock hummed and nodded his head. John felt the curls brush his jaw as Sherlock’s head went up and down. John was feeling tired, but was glad to know his friend seemed to be doing okay.

At some point during the film, both John and Sherlock fell asleep. Sherlock’s head and slid down and ended up in John’s lap like a pillow. John’s hand found it’s way into Sherlock’s curly hair. John was the first to wake up; at least he thought he was. Sherlock seemed peaceful enough and when John checked his watch, he realised they could not have been a sleep too long. A few more minutes would not hurt Sherlock. With that thought, John fell back to sleep. 

Sherlock woke sometime later. He was comfortable and rather warm. But the pillow beneath his head felt strange. There was also an unusual pressure on his head. But it did not hurt. It was comforting. Sherlock closed his eyes again to rest in the soothing feeling for a few minutes.

His eyes snapped open suddenly when he realised what was happening. His head was resting in John’s lap and it was John’s hand on his head. He did not panic or move, but he was surprised at how comfortable he felt. He had been averse to touch for so long that he was surprised at how calm he felt. He rested and tried to enjoy the experience until his bladder demanded that he move. As carefully as he could, he extracted himself from John’s lap and hand. Then he wrapped his comforter around John. Sherlock froze when John moved, but relaxed when John just seemed to fall asleep more.

When Sherlock was done in the loo, he found the bottle of ibuprofen and took two pills for his headache. John was still sleeping, so Sherlock decided to be nice and make some breakfast. Of course, for him breakfast consisted of toasted muffins and jams. Which should be enough for now, he figured Mrs Hudson would feed them properly.

Sherlock and John never spoke about how they had slept for those few hours. Sherlock did not see a need to talk about it at all and John decided it would not be worth any awkwardness to address it.


	14. Chapter 14

_You were wrong. It wasn’t in the sugar. You got it wrong._ “The Hounds of Baskerville”

Sherlock was driving the SUV when they left Grimpen Village to get to the train station. As before, he refused to let John drive. John acquiesced because it was easier to let Sherlock drive than it was to fight him on it. Though, honestly John did not trust Sherlock as much as he had before. After all, Sherlock had tried to drug him and locked him in the lab. He was actually surprised it had not set off his PTSD. Maybe the real threat of the dog allowed his head to process it well enough.

They only had fifteen minutes left of their approximate thirty-five minute drive when Sherlock pulled the vehicle off to the side and jumped out. He took off at a run. John had been in his own little universe and it took him a minute to realise what was going on. He grabbed his gun and started chasing after the other man.

Sherlock had expected to grow calmer the further he drove from Baskerville, but the opposite happened. He started to feel like he did the first night after he had been exposed to the HOUND drug. He leaped over the fence and continued to run until he literally collapsed, landing on his hands and knees, and breathing heavily.

It took John a minute or so to catch up to him. He tried to make noise as he approached, because he did not want to startle the other man, “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head. John grew worried, he slowly rested his hand on Sherlock’s back; just a gentle pressure to let him know he was not alone. He spoke hesitantly, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock moved suddenly and vomited. He did not move for some minutes after he finished. John searched his pockets for a handkerchief. When he found one he handed it to the other man. “Will you be all right for a minute? I’ll go get a bottle of water.”

Sherlock nodded his head, but John was not convinced. Still he could not be in two places at once, “I’ll be right back. Just… stay put.”

John watched Sherlock as he started to back away, then he turned and ran the distance to the SUV. Once he had a bottle, he ran back. He sighed with relief when he had seen that Sherlock had not moved. He twisted off the lid and handed the open bottle to Sherlock, “Swish and spit first, then only a small sip or two.” 

Sherlock again did as he was told without argument. John grew even more worried. After a few sips, Sherlock handed the bottle back to John, “Thanks.”

“Sherlock?”

“I’m fine.”

Sherlock could not understand why the man would not leave him alone. He just needed a minute to collect his thoughts and let his stomach calm down a bit. He felt more than saw John sit down next to him. John’s soft voice rolled over the torrent of emotions rippling through his Mind Palace, “Breathe, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

* * *

When he opened them again, he was in his Mind Palace. He made his way to the dungeons. Because he had to check; had to make sure…. The vision he had last night of Moriarty had spooked him, more than he was willing to let on. When he got to the dungeon, he did not open the door to the padded room, but simply peeked in through the window. He sighed with relief. Moriarty was still there, safely chained in the room. While that was reassuring, he still did not feel safe enough to leave the palace. He slumped down on the stairs to just be alone for a minute.

* * *

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He knew the signs of a panic attack, but he was confused what set Sherlock off. Sherlock had solved the case, even with his own PTSD, understanding what had happened in the lab had gone a long way to calming him down. A small part of him was still angry at Sherlock, but seeing his friend in the throws of a panic attack, his doctoring nature was at the forefront. “Sherlock, I’m going to take your wrist so I can take your pulse. I need to breathe like me, okay?”

John slowly took Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock’s pulse was racing and he seemed lost to himself. This was not good. “Okay, I’m worried about how fast your pulse is. I’m going to take your hand and rest it on my chest so you can feel my heartbeat, okay?”

There was no response, so John placed Sherlock’s hand over his heart. Sometimes that caused a sympathetic reaction in the other person and their own heart rate slowed. That did not seem to be the case this time.

* * *

Sherlock had curled around his knees as he rested on the stairs. He heard a strange noise. It took him a minute to realise there was a competing rhythm to his own heartbeat. This was causing the ambience of the entire Mind Palace to shake, the way Baker Street does when a heavy lorry goes by. Only this time, it was not stopping. His gaze drifted towards the door that kept Moriarty separated from the rest of his palace. He had locked him in there after the events at the Pool, what seems like so long ago, now. He took a breath, relaxing as the door held against the change that somehow seemed so violent to him.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He then slowly made his way up the stairs and back into the foyer. He tried to keep his breath steady and he tried to make his heart beat in time with the strange rhythm that was beating around the entire palace. When the rumbling finally stopped, he closed his eyes.

* * *

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, he found that his hand was on John’s chest. John was looking into his eyes with a concerned expression on his features. Sherlock tried to pull his hand away. John held it in place, “Just give it a minute, yeah?”

Sherlock could tell John was taking his pulse, but they were still sat in the field. That was good. He had not been in his Palace for too long. After another minute, John seemed to relax and he released Sherlock’s hands. “Okay. Okay. Wanna tell me what that was all about?”

Sherlock shook his head, but found the open water bottle and took a couple of sips. John was not going to move without some form of reply, “I… I needed to make sure everything was in place in my Mind Palace.”

John gave him a look that spoke volumes, “While we were on the road? You couldn’t wait until we were on the train?”

Sherlock huffed, “I pulled over didn’t I?”

John sighed, “Yes you did… But Sherlock, I’ve seen this kind of reaction before.”

Sherlock just arched one eyebrow at John.

“Soldier, remember?” He sighed without saying more for a few minutes, “How about if I drive the rest of the way to the station? That way you can rest a bit and we can get everything else figured out on the train.”

Sherlock reluctantly agreed with that. John helped him to stand and they made their way back to the SUV.

The rest of the drive to the station went without incidence. They turned in the hired car and made their way to the platform to wait for the train. Even with their delay in the field, they were in time for their train and they did not have to wait long, for which Sherlock was thankful. They now had nearly three hours on the train.

John got comfortable in his seat and gave Sherlock a few minutes to calm down. Public transport always did funny things to Sherlock, so John knew to wait a bit before talking. He knew the time was right when Sherlock seemed to actually relax into his seat. This conversation had to happen now, or John knew it never would.

“Sherlock,” John began slowly, “It’s expected. Normal, even.”

John questioned himself about using the word ‘normal’ and Sherlock’s name in the same sentence. He bit the inside of his lip. Sherlock’s head turned slowly and again, his eyebrow raised. John took a breath and continued, “I mean what happened to you today. After everything with the drug, the doubt you felt, the land mine going off… Which, by the way, don’t ever go running off on your own like that near a military base. Especially when we know there’s a mine field, yeah?”

Sherlock closed his eyes a moment and took a deep breath before opening his eyes again and speaking, “I’m fine, John.”

“I said your reaction was normal. I didn’t say you were fine.”

“John, I have no desire to talk about this.”

_Oh, God, it’s the night by the fireplace all over again,_ John thought, _Okay, I can work with that_. John spoke aloud, “Okay. Right. Well, I want to talk about it. I need to. Because, what you did to me in the lab... and with the dog at the hollow and then Franklin and the land mine. I’m not sure I’m okay.”

Sherlock pulled a face that spoke to his level of confusion, “Then why did you drive the rest of the way?”

_Good_ , John thought, _Sherlock is being analytical about it. That should help._ He continued speaking to Sherlock, “Because at that point in time, I was more okay than you were.”

Sherlock huffed. John did not want him hiding in himself again, “Like I said, your reaction is normal. In fact, as a civilian, I would be more worried if you didn’t react like that.”

“John, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I know, Sherlock, but you don’t have to. Just listen, all right?”

Sherlock gave a nod of his head and so John continued, “What you did to me was incredibly dangerous. If you think your reaction is bad, how much worse do you think I could get after something like that?”

“Oh.” It was not said in shocked excitement, as Sherlock usually said it. This was resignation to the fact that he had screwed up and in a big way.

“Yes. ‘Oh.’” John rubbed his face with his hands for a moment before continuing, “I’m not like you. I don’t have a mind palace that makes things easy for me to sort. Or that allows me to delete things so they no longer affect me. But, I’m a doctor too, Sherlock, and that’s how I can block those things. I let my care and concern for my patients become my focus. But when we get back to Baker Street… When my adrenaline rush of taking care of my panicked friend disappears…” He shrugged, not really knowing how to finish that statement.

Sherlock remained quiet for a long time. After a minute, John decided Sherlock wasn’t going to reply, so he sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. It was another few minutes before Sherlock’s soft baritone was heard just over the noise of the train, “Then I shall play my violin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see my story, _[Sherlock’s Other Escapism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/680132)_ as taking place after this chapter.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this story is continuing as well. Longer Chapter as a bonus :)
> 
> * * *

_Sorry about dinner_. “A Scandal in Belgravia” 

Sherlock was so angry… and hurt, if he were honest. He could not stand the emotions swirling through him, so he decided to walk from Mycroft’s back to Baker Street. It was only about three kilometres; less if he took to the roofs. But he had no reason to do that. He wanted the space to think about what had just happened. He deserved every bit of teasing his brother would give him for the near disaster he had caused.

And then, there was The Woman. He had signed her death sentence with the last bit of information he had given to Mycroft. He did not know how he felt about that. He did not want to know. Instead, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

He only smoked the one cigarette. John would either be disappointed that he smoked at all, or perhaps pleased that he stopped after one. It was hard to say. Sherlock did not know why he bothered worrying about it; John probably was not even home. He probably was out on a date with Suzette, Lorraine, Tina – whatever her name was this week. Which meant he would be going home to an empty flat. He debated how he should handle this.

Undoubtedly, Mycroft had probably contacted John already, so maybe John would be there. He pulled out his phone to send a text to John:

Contrary to popular belief, I’m fine. – SH

That would either worry John into leaving his date, or reassure him that Mycroft was up to his usual tricks. After hesitating for a few moments, Sherlock pressed ‘send’.

It took him just over an hour to get home. He took his time and did not rush. Besides, it would give John a chance to say his good-byes, if he was going to leave his date early. He did not know if he wanted John to be there when he got home or not.

* * *

John’s date with Marie had gone well, until it was time to go back to her apartment. He had learned to not bring women back to Baker Street, unless absolutely necessary. Marie seemed… excited to invite him back to her place. While John was not the sort of man to pass up a good shag, her enthusiasm was actually putting him off a bit.

Luckily, while they were in the cab to her place, his mobile rang. Knowing that Sherlock was with Irene, he quickly, but gently, pushed Marie off of him and answered the phone. “Dr Watson,” a familiar voice said, “You need to get back to Baker Street. I’m sending a car to take you.”

“My-croft? How do you… Never mind. What’s happened? What’s wrong with Sherlock?”

Mycroft was quiet for a long moment before replying, “I took a calculated risk and we only succeeded because Sherlock solved the case at the last possible second.”

Mycroft had felt bad for that. The emotions he showed on the ‘Flight of the Dead’ had not been faked. He truly thought they had lost and it was his fault for letting their childish baiting schemes get in the way of the case. But, now, he needed to make sure that Sherlock was safe; that he lived to see another day without succumbing to the urges Mycroft knew he undoubtedly harboured.

“Mycroft, I’m kind of busy.”

Mycroft sighed heavily, “I’m fairly certain that Mrs Marie Fauntine can hear me, so I think it best for everyone involved if I didn’t explain everything that I know about her over the phone.”

At that, John looked over at Marie with a hard glare. He could tell by her expression that she had heard every word. John spoke back into his phone, “Right. Where should I have the cab leave me?”

“The next stop light will work well. My car is not far behind.”

John, without hanging up gave the instructions to the cabbie. Once they were stopped, he paid for the trip up to that point, but did not say a word to Marie as he got out. Into the phone, he said, “Right. Where, then?”

“Patience, John. It will be about two minutes.”

John nodded, figuring Mycroft could see him. “So, what’s going on?”

“I’ll let Sherlock provide the details, if he so chooses. But, England was brought to her knees and it took Sherlock Holmes all his abilities to save her.”

John huffed, disappointed with Mycroft’s answer. “You’d better explain better than that.”

“She was working for Moriarty.”

John nodded, he figured Mycroft could see him. He fisted his hands, while he tried to keep his voice level. “When did you know?”

“I had my suspicions. But she confirmed it tonight.” 

Mycroft did not mention that he had captured Moriarty and interrogated him for weeks. He had only recently released him. He knew The Woman turning up again was not an accident. Of course, she had confirmed it for him, so it was pointless to reveal any other information. He continued, “The car pulling up to you now is mine.”

“How do you know he’s going to Baker Street?”

“Because my brother feels at home there. Because that was the last place he saw Miss Adler. Because I’m following him on CCTV and he has yet to veer from his path. Though he is smoking.”

“Shit,” John sighed.

John gave Mycroft his farewells and got into the car. He needed to think about how he was going to handle this. A few moments later, his text alert chimed. It was a text from Sherlock telling him that he was fine. John could not decide if he believed him or not. Still, he felt better going to Baker Street rather than staying with Marie. He wondered if he should thank Mycroft for saving him, but then decided handling this mess should be thanks enough. Finally, he decided to send a reply:

Date over anyway. Meet you at Baker Street.

It was not long before he arrived at 221, John had no way to know if Sherlock was already home or not. He wondered briefly if he should pick up something to drink, but then, Sherlock did not drink often. Hopefully, this would not be Christmas all over again.

* * *

Sherlock had arrived at Baker Street before John. He let himself in, changed into pyjamas, turned on the fireplace and curled himself into his chair so he could watch the flames. This was yet another example of his tremendous ability to fail. It did not matter that he had figured out the code, he should have figured it out long before. The failure was not what was bothering him right now, though.

In Irene Adler, Sherlock thought he had found a peer. Like him in so many ways – save that she wielded sex as a tool and weapon, and he just did not use sex at all. When Irene had died, Sherlock had mourned her in his own way. After all, it was the loss of a mind nearly as brilliant as his. In some ways, she had reminded him of Melissa – or at least as he imagined Melissa might have been as an adult. With her return – it was like being given another chance, one he hadn’t had with Melissa. Simply knowing that she was alive in the world was enough. Then, all of the events tonight happened. Not only had she used him, but also she had denied any sentimental feelings she had towards him. She used his emotions against him. To make matters worse, it turned out she was not even that smart. She was nothing at all like Melissa, in the end. She had help from Moriarty.

Sherlock hissed out loud as that thought crossed his mind. His entire body tensed even thinking the name ‘Moriarty’. He took a breath and tried to force himself to calm down. Just then, he heard the door to 221 open. John was here. Even knowing John’s presence was in the house was like a balm to his frayed nerves. He listened as John closed and locked the front door and made his way up the stairs to the flat.

“Date ended poorly, but not because my brother called you about me. He told you something about her. Something that made you abandon her without a second thought.”

Sherlock had not meant to do that, but he could not stop himself. It was a defence mechanism: Piss everyone off so that the would hate him, then he didn’t have to worry about appearing ‘weak’ in front of them. 

John sighed heavily as he hung his jacket up next to Sherlock’s coat. He knew what Sherlock was trying to do. He stared at Sherlock for a moment, flexed his hands once, then made his way to the kitchen. He poured two glasses of scotch, then made his way back to the sitting room with them. He handed one to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at John for a long moment. Finally, he took the proffered glass and rested it on his knees. He didn’t drink from it, though. He was still lost in his own thoughts. The scotch simply gave him something to focus on besides the fire.

John sat in his chair and watched Sherlock for a long moment. He thought he had grown accustomed to the oddities that made up the man sat across from him. But this – this reminded him of some cross between Dartmoor and Irene’s death. The silence and stillness of the other man was unnerving. Still, John knew there was no pressuring Sherlock; he would talk when he was good and ready. All John could do was wait.

John ended up waiting about twenty minutes. In that time, he had finished off his scotch, but dared not to leave Sherlock. With his luck, the man would flee and he would never learn anything. Still, there was something to be said for companionable silence that they shared. 

When Sherlock finally spoke, his voice was soft. “I told Mycroft to imprison her if he was feeling generous…”

John raised his eyebrow, but remained silent and Sherlock took the hint to continue, “She’s a blackmailer, John, think of how many networks would want to kill her if they found out her phone has become government property.”

John nodded once. “You think Mycroft will let her go.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Because of me...”

“I don’t think he would see it as a way to punish you.”

Sherlock huffed and finally took a sip of his scotch. “Of course not. He would see it as a way to save me. Even if she’s locked away, she might still be able to have some control over me. Mycroft can’t handle anyone besides himself having such power over me.” 

John offered a mirthless chuckle. “And yet he calls me…”

Sherlock shrugged a little and downed the rest of his glass in one go. “Well, nobody’s perfect.” 

Sherlock offered a tiny smile and the pair fell into silence again. Anther few minutes passed before Sherlock spoke again. “She used me and the fact that I was attracted by her intelligence as part of her blackmail.”

John waited for Sherlock to say more. When he did not, John spoke, “Mycroft said she was working with Moriarty.”

Sherlock clinched his teeth, making the muscles in his cheeks pulse. He nodded once. John tilted his head, trying to read the mind of the other man. “Would you rather Mycroft lock her up? It’s probably not too late to change his mind…”

Sherlock shrugged. “I wouldn’t want her to die. But I think I made it abundantly clear to her that this game of hers was over.”

If John had heard the entirety of that conversation, he would probably tell Sherlock he had been cruel. However if Irene considered it a game, then he would win. He was simply better at games of emotional manipulation – even if they took him longer to figure out. He had enough practice. He also imagines that Mycroft was either impressed or horrified – his brother was always difficult to read in such situations.

He continued, “It’s a pity she was working with him. The game was perfectly played until she let that piece of information slip. Once she did, all of the pieces to her puzzle slotted neatly into place.”

John nodded, “Well, given the information on the phone, it’s for the best, right? Do you think Moriarty will be the one to… take care of her.”

Sherlock gave a look of disbelief to John as he replies, “He told us he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, but I have no doubt that if such happens, he will be involved at some level.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a theory of mine: Yes, Sherlock saved Irene because she was “Irene.” However, I think he also saved her to deny something else from Moriarty. Which would further explain the sudden escalation that Moriarty took in “The Reichenbach Fall.”


	16. Chapter 16

_When I say run, run!_ “A Scandal in Belgravia”

Sherlock had arranged for transport between Karachi and Muscat, Oman. While it was not as far away as he wanted to get Irene, it was enough to create his alibi. He had checked in to the hotel there the night before, took the two-a.m. flight to Karachi, and now would leave Karachi at ten-p.m. Hopefully, it was quick enough to stay off his brother’s radar and John was away at a medical conference. He could not have arranged things better even if he had control over everything. From Oman, he would send Irene on her way.

Sherlock relaxed slightly when the plane took off from Karachi. The Woman was sat calmly next to him. He only had brought their forged passports with him, everything else Irene would need to start over was back at the hotel in Oman. It was a calculated risk, but he figured the items would be safer in the hotel than on his person. Irene was unusually quiet the entire time. When they got to their hotel room, room service had dinner ready for them. That seemed to snap Irene out of whatever stupor she was in, “I thought you didn’t do dinner.”

It was a poor attempt at a joke, but Sherlock took it literally, “Consider it a peace offering.”

Irene nodded and started to take off the chador. Sherlock busied himself with making sure all of the food was delivered without any surprises. Without looking at her, he responded, “There are some clothes for you in the bathroom. Why don’t you freshen up, this is going to take me a couple of minutes.”

The Woman, for the first time, felt lost in this situation, so she took him up on his offer.

She came out a few minutes later. Her hair, now in a bowl cut, framed her face. She wore only one of the hotel bathrobes. Sherlock had the plates and beverages ready at the small table. He was sitting in one of the chairs and he gestured for her to sit in the other. Once she was seated, he started to eat with much gusto. It had been nearly 24 hours since he had eaten anything. The pair ate in silence. Irene watched him and he watched his food.

He hoped that she would understand that they were in a two-bed room for a reason. He would not tolerate any of her nonsense tonight. He was too tired and besides, they had an early flight to catch. Irene’s words broke into his thoughts, “Thank you.”

He looked up and met her eyes, “I didn’t do it for you.”

She leaned forward and stared him down. He held her gaze and shrugged. “I didn’t. I did it to punish Moriarty.”

That was something she had not expected to hear. “I haven’t worked with him since –“

“I know, but I wanted to deny him the pleasure — ”

“If you did your job right, he’ll never know.”

“Wrong.”

Irene raised an eyebrow at that. 

“If I did my job right, my _brother_ will never know. I fully intend for Jim to find out.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“I have no doubt. I need to see how far I can push him before he breaks.”

Irene sat back in her chair. She was quiet for a moment, “So I’m still a pawn, then. This time, _yours_.”

Sherlock nodded once, “It doesn’t mean I think less of your intelligence. In fact, I’m surprised it took them this long.”

“How were you tracking me?”

“My brother is the British Government. It isn’t hard to ride his coat tails and set up my own networks. After tonight, you will disappear.” 

“So, you’re chivalrous after all. Except rather than taking the princess to marry, you set her free.” 

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment, “Freedom is more than you deserve.”

Irene nodded, she could not argue with that. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing with him. Lives are on the line.”

His voice was soft in response, “I know,” he sighed, “We both have a long day tomorrow, try to get some sleep.”

With that, he started to clear his plates. Then, he gathered his clothes and made his way to the loo. After showering and taking care of other necessities, he opened the door. He was prepared for anything Irene might throw at him. But, she was tucked under the blankets in one of the beds. Sherlock made his way to the other and settled himself in.

A few hours later, he woke to the sounds of Irene… At first he couldn’t tell if she was asleep, but then it became clear that she was weeping, though trying to keep it quiet. He sighed, got out of bed and went to check on her. He was glad to see she had put on the pullover he had brought for her. She continued to cry, unheeding of his presence. Finally, he laid on top of the covers and wrapped an arm around her. She tensed at first, which was a turn of events, but eventually she relaxed. After some minutes and just before the pair dropped off to sleep, he heard her soft voice, “Thank you for saving me.”

The next day, they went to the airport, both headed in a separate direction. Sherlock had given Irene everything that was needed to set up a new identity. As well as several open tickets to various locations. “I don’t want to know where you are going, but if you need me, you know how to contact me.”

She smiled, “Indeed. Thank you for dinner.”

With that she turned and went to the gate for her flight. Sherlock hoped she would let him know she was alive sometimes. He liked knowing that she was alive, if for no other reason than her mind was nearly as complex as his own.

Sherlock returned to London and Baker Street that day. John came back from his conference and neither Mycroft nor John seemed any the wiser. It took two months before Sherlock had confirmation that his deception of the other two men had worked. But every so often, he spared a thought for The Woman.


	17. Interlude (Not long enough for a full chapter)

_Wired? I’m not wired_. “A Study In Pink - Pilot”

After Sherlock had hung up, John rushed to Baker Street to check on his friend. Because of the trial, he had not brought his gun with him. He swore quietly under his breath as he tried to flag a taxi. In the traffic it would take far too long to get there, but he knew trying to call Sherlock again would be a fruitless effort. He thought fleetingly about calling Lestrade, but by the time Lestrade got to Old Bailey, John would be nearly back to Baker Street. He would just have to calm himself down and wait to get there.

It did not take as long as he thought. Only twelve minutes – even with the heavier lunch hour traffic. He made a cursory glance at the surrounding area, everything looked safe. He opened the door, entered, shut the door soundly, and made sure to lock all the bolts before making his way quietly upstairs – skipping the creaking stairs. He did not know what he would find, so instead of heading immediately to the sitting room, he first went to his bedroom to retrieve his gun. He felt safer once he had it in hand. But he had noticed the flat was quiet – too quiet. He slowly turned the knob of the door to the kitchen, figuring if Moriarty was there, he might be able to catch him by surprise.

“He’s gone, John, no use sneaking about.”

John rolled his eyes as his flatmate’s voice reached his ears. He gave up all pretence at safety, lowered the gun and entered the flat through the kitchen. He placed his gun on the kitchen table before making his way to the sitting room. He knew it was pointless to ask Sherlock how he knew he was there. Instead, he started with the important question, “What happened?”

Sherlock was sat on John’s chair, his palms pressed together, and his chin resting atop his fingers. Sherlock sitting in John’s chair was new. Not that it never happened, but it was rare and never had Sherlock taken on his “thinking pose” when sitting there. After a moment, Sherlock gestured to the apple on the desk, John walked over to look at it. “’I.... U.’ What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I owe you. Moriarty’s promise.”

“Promise,” John said flatly.

Sherlock nodded, “Have you forgotten what he said at the pool already?”

“I had a few other things on my mind at the time,” John replied. “ _Trying to get us not blown up_ ,” went unsaid.

“’If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you.’” Sherlock gestured his head to the apple. “He owes me a fall.”

John was horrified, “So, after everything, he’s going to make good on his promise to kill you?”

Sherlock shrugged, “It won’t be that simple. He’ll destroy me first. All I can do is the best I can to prepare for it. But to do that, I have to answer the question of, ‘How?’”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have a better question, why did you let him in?”

Sherlock chuckled a few moments before replying. “’Let.’ Don’t say that as if I had a choice. You saw the video he posted to your blog. Who knows how long he’s had access to the flat. Though I have a theory about that.”

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock with the last remark. “Explain." 

Sherlock sighed, running out of patience. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve ensured the locks to Mrs Hudson’s doors have been changed. No sense in changing ours, if he wants us, you know better than anyone, he’ll get us.”

John was less than pleased with that answer, “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing different. We’ll solve cases and continue on like normal.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I reject that the “Lazarus solution” as presented in “The Empty Hearse” was the actual solution. When I get to “The Empty Hearse” chapters, you see why – but I don’t want to spoil that here. This chapter includes my theory. It’s changed very little from when I first watched TRF.
> 
> * * *

_Prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do_. “The Reichenbach Fall”

Sherlock had spent the past couple of months preparing for what he knew would come. He left little hints for John. He would make an odd turn of a phrase; off-hand mentions of suicide; short discussions about how people who’ve done drugs could be more susceptible to depression and suicide – some cases helped with those conversations. Everything was planned so that when he gave his final note to John, all the pieces would fall into place and John would have no choice but to believe Sherlock capable of taking his own life. 

Sherlock was impressed and almost entertained by just how far Jim Moriarty had gone to create Richard Brook. Now, the wheels were in motion and it was time to put his final plans into place. Sherlock left John standing in front of Kitty’s flat and he went to Bart’s. He hoped he had enough time to get all the final preparations made. He knew John would go to his brother. He was glad. Mycroft deserved whatever tongue-lashing John was going to dole out.

* * *

“I know I said you could ask me for anything, but Sherlock, this is…” Molly’s voice trailed off.

“It’s the only way, Molly. He wants me to kill myself and if I can find a way to not die…”

Molly nodded and removed the needle from his arm, putting cotton gauze over the puncture to the vein. Sherlock remained where he was, bending his elbow to add pressure and stop the bleeding. He let Molly prepare the bag of blood to be delivered to his Homeless Network.

“You really think John will be in any condition to think to take a blood sample?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know, but I can’t take the chance that he won’t think of it. He is sometimes more observant than he lets on.”

“And you can’t tell me any more of how you’re going to do it?”

He shook his head, “The less you know, the better. If I didn’t have to include you in my plan at all, I wouldn’t. But… My brother needs to understand the mistake he made. The only way is to let him believe I’m dead for a time. Since I can’t use him, I have to do this on my own.”

Molly nodded, “I still don’t like it – too many things can go wrong when it comes to faking your death. And if you involve too many people….” 

Sherlock shrugged as he finally sat up slowly. “Besides you, only six members of my Homeless Network will know that the whole thing is fake. They’re the ones I trust the most… A couple of them knew me back when I was homeless myself. I’ll let Mycroft squirm a little while, then I’ll bring him into the plan so he can give me access to information I’ll need to dismantle Moriarty’s network.”

“About that… You won’t have any contact with anyone else. How will I know you’re alive?”

Sherlock offered a small smile, “I’ll tell Mycroft that you know, but he will only contact you should I actually die. It would be too dangerous to have more contact than that. I'll tell him you helped me and you'll be under his protection.  Just don't expect to ever hear from him. ‘No news is good news,’ as the saying goes.”

Molly swallowed thickly, “Okay. Well. Um. This is ready, so I guess I’ll see you in a few hours?”

Sherlock nodded. With that, Molly left. She would not see him again until he was brought in on the trolley. She did not know much of the plan. Just that Sherlock will fall from the rooftop of Bart’s and three members of his Homeless Network would bring him to her morgue on a trolley. He might look bad, but should not need much beyond a shower and basic first aid. At least if his plan worked; if not, it was going to be a very different situation indeed.

When Sherlock had mentioned the need to stop his pulse, she offered him a drug. He refused, since that left too much to chance if something went wrong. Instead he kept the rubber ball that he had used to make the bag of blood fill faster. He explained that pressing it against the Brachial Artery would stop the pulse at the wrist. So anyone trying to take it would not feel anything. It was a protective measure, should someone who did not know the plan get to him first.

* * *

 Sherlock was shocked that Moriarty told him the computer code was fake. Mycroft’s people had known about the code’s existence since before he went to Dartmoor. One of the reasons why he went was because he knew Mycroft had imprisoned Moriarty. It meant that London would be safe enough, even if he were not there to protect it. They had captured Moriarty with the express intention of getting information on the code. The computer geniuses of MI-6 had been able to prove that it was possible, even if they themselves could not figure out what the code was. At that point, Sherlock had permitted his brother to give Moriarty some details about their upbringing – but Mycroft had go too far, which is how Sherlock found himself in this predicament. Of course, he could not let Moriarty know that he knew the code was real; instead he played the role of a lost, shocked, and misguided detective.

Sherlock then asked if Moriarty would grant a moment of privacy. This allowed him to scope out the area to make sure everything was in place. He saw Jamison on his bike, in case John returned to Bart’s early. He knew Ken, Harold, and Billy were near the ambulance bay with the trolley. One of them would serve to be the doctor and had the bag of Sherlock’s blood to pour around and over his head. The other two would act as paramedics who would rush out later with the trolley. Shana would act as a nurse and Zee as a random passer-by, to get the crowd interested in the event. Any gathered crowd would take care of the rest of the attention that was needed. He smiled as he looked down and saw everything was ready. There was even a short line of buses near the stop – the last piece of the plan was in place.

But then, he realised he would not have to jump after all! Moriarty had a recall code. Perfect. He finally had a way to outsmart Moriarty that would not lead to anyone getting hurt. At least until Moriarty made that last act of desperation by putting a bullet in his head... Well Sherlock’s death would be less permanent, if all went to plan. He panicked anyway. Just for a moment there had been the thrill that he would not have to do this. And now he did.

Sherlock looked at the building across from him as he took his place on the ledge. In a window, he saw the glint of a gun. John’s life would be in imminent danger when he returned to Bart’s. Sherlock could only depend on his wits and hoped the quick mental calculations that he had made the last time he was standing on this ledge were right.

There was one last thing he had to do. He called John to leave his ‘note’. He hated himself, for the lies he told during the call, but it was the only way to ensure the safety of John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. John’s resolve and belief in him almost made it impossible for him to jump. He was chocked with emotion – it had been a long time since anyone besides his parents had expressed their belief in him so transparently.

Sherlock was grateful as he looked down to see there were still two buses. Everyone was in place. This was his only chance. It was now or never. He tossed the phone aside, spread his arms, and started to fall. He felt the impact as his feet first landed on the edge of the bus. Then, as the bus pulled away, he pushed himself to the pavement. It hurt, but it was quite survivable and he would have fewer injuries than if he had landed straight on the pavement. All he could do now, was lay there and let the six trusted members of his Homeless Network do their jobs.

It felt like hours had passed before he heard John’s panicked voice. God, he wished he did not have to do this to his friend. Luckily moments later, he felt John release his wrist and a second after that, he was being lifted onto the stretcher and wheeled into Bart’s Morgue.

Molly took over at that point and shooed everyone else away. She locked the morgue and started to take care of Sherlock. She had to steal herself, for Sherlock’s head was covered in blood. He really did look dead, unless you looked closely. She should see that he was breathing shallowly, whether from shock or emotions, she could not say. She slowly started to undress him. When she had him down to his under-shirt and pants, Sherlock seemed to come back to awareness with a loud gasp. “It’s cold!”

Molly had started to weep. It did not matter that she knew it was fake; she hoped to never see any of her friends on a trolley in her morgue. But Sherlock’s reaction made her giggle softly. “Sorry. I can’t do anything about the heat. How are you doing?”

Sherlock made to sit up and Molly helped him, “Like I fell off a building.”

Molly looked at him grimly and then started to evaluate him, “You might have a cracked rib or two. And you’ll need to watch your left ankle for swelling. It doesn’t feel fractured, but the impact might have put too much strain on it.”

Sherlock nodded slowly and winced with the action. Molly gestured to one of the doors. “There’s a shower over there. It has hot water and you can get cleaned up. I put the bag of clothes and supplies you requested in there. Do… Do you need help?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly. Molly nodded once, “Right. I’ll take care of John… Just... give me your coat? You’ll have about twenty minutes, then I’ll come back.”

* * *

It was not difficult for Molly to drum up some tears. She had wanted to cry like this ever since Sherlock told her he was going to die. They got worse as she saw John. There was no need to fake them. John was sitting dejected on a trolley in one of the curtained areas of A & E. “John?”

John looked up and saw that she was crying and carrying Sherlock’s coat. She just shook her head in reply to John’s unasked question. “I-I think he’d want you to have this.”

She draped the coat around John’s shoulders. The pair sat there – both mourning and crying. Mrs Hudson arrived a few minutes later, having gotten a phone call from someone at Bart’s asking her to come collect John.

Mrs Hudson gasped when she saw the pair, “It’s true, then?”

Molly could not look at the older woman and just nodded, “John was knocked down by a cyclist in the middle of it. We thought it would be best if someone could accompany him home.”

“And you, dear?”

Molly finally looked up at Mrs Hudson. “I have to… To… To work.”

“Oh you poor thing. Can’t anyone else...?”

Molly shook her head. “But, it’ll be easier knowing everyone else is cared for.”

Mrs Hudson’s cheeks were covered in tears. “I’ll take good care of this one. You take care of the other one.”

Molly nearly burst into tears again at that request, but just nodded. “I’ll do all I can for him.”

At least, with that reply, she was not lying.

After Mrs Hudson left with John, Molly returned to the morgue. She gasped when she saw him. Sherlock looked much better for having had a shower. However, he was different too; he was dressed in the jeans and pullover that Molly had brought for him. He did not look quite like himself. Most drastic of all was the short haircut that he now sported. 

“Did I do it wrong?”

The shock of hearing that familiar voice out of someone who did not look like Sherlock made her stop crying, “What? No… You… don’t look like yourself is all.”

Sherlock offered a sheepish smile, “That is the point.” He was quiet a few moments before he asked, “H-how’s John?”

“In shock, and mourning. Mrs Hudson too, she came to collect him. They’re going back to Baker Street.”

Sherlock nodded once with approval. Molly approached to give him a final once-over. She was methodical, but gentle. Once she was done, she helped him into a leather jacket. He did not look like himself at all. If she had not seen the transformation herself, she would not believe it was he.

“It’s all about hiding in plain sight now. I don’t want you to worry about me, Molly. I’ll be contacting my brother tomorrow night. He will ensure that you will not loose your job over this. Until I complete my mission… I guess this is good bye.”

Molly could not say anything. Instead, she wrapped him in a hug. It took a few moments, but he slowly returned the hug. He released her and just looked her over as if trying to commit her image to memory. Then he nodded and picked up his bag. Molly could not let him leave like that. She rushed over before he could leave, “Stay at mine. At least for tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note: I don’t address Moriarty’s body because that was not addressed in the show to my satisfaction. And given the fan-baiting Moffaitss is currently doing, it’s not worth it to address. Though, I will post my theory of Moriarty’s reappearance – if I get that part written before S4 comes around :|


	19. Chapter 19

_I couldn’t risk giving myself away_. “The Empty Hearse”

Sherlock’s ankle throbbed, but it had not swelled, luckily. It had only discoloured slightly, so any injury was probably minor and would only heal with time. He dare not wait longer to confront Mycroft. He was enjoying the idea of making his brother squirm. However when he spared a thought for his parents, he did not want them to suffer too long. He had jumped nearly 36 hour ago. All the media were reporting his death, so he was certain everyone had heard by now. After a brief argument with Molly, he allowed her to ‘put him up’ at her place. Now, it was time to release her of responsibility and bring Mycroft in on his little plan. He was sat in one of the elegant wingback leather chairs next to the fireplace. He had is foot elevated upon the footstool. All he could do now was wait for his brother’s return. He stewed in his swirling thoughts, trying to figure out the perfect comment to open the conversation.

Mycroft entered the study, poured himself a glass of bourbon, and drank half the glass before he refilled it. Sherlock’s warm baritone broke the silence in the room, “You’re slipping, brother mine.”

Mycroft’s entire body stiffened, even from behind, Sherlock could tell his brother was turning pale. Mycroft slowly turned around to face the ghost of his brother, all the while thinking, _there’s no such thing_. He swallowed thickly and slowly moved to take his chair, across from the one in which Sherlock was sat. If Sherlock had looked as expected: dark curls and wearing a dark suit, he might have started to believe in ghosts. As it was, the way Sherlock looked now, he was very much not a ghost. Mycroft breathed more than spoke the name, “Sherlock.”

Mycroft was glad Sherlock had spoken first, for the man in front of him looked nothing like his brother. Sherlock nodded once. The two brothers stared at each other for a long time – neither daring to speak. Mycroft was trying to find the right words to speak. But no question he could formulate would lead to the answers he desired. Finally, he stood, walked back to the wet bar, filled a second glass with bourbon, and brought it back, offering it to his brother. That gave him much needed time to think. He decided his brother would not answer any questions to his satisfaction, so it was pointless to ask anything relating to his current, very much alive, situation. He sat back down and sipped at his own glass of bourbon. Sherlock, he was pleased to note, did the same. At long last, he broke the silence, “What do you need?” 

“Everything you have on Moriarty and his network.”

“He’s dead.” 

Sherlock released a breath he did not know he was holding. He had considered, yesterday when he was in the shower, the possibility that Moriarty might have also faked his death. So much that he nearly went to the roof to check himself. Sherlock had looked away too quickly after it had happened – his shock might have blinded him to any clues of a deception. If Mycroft stated so plainly that he was dead, then Sherlock knew he could trust that much. He nodded his head once. “His network isn’t.” 

“I see. You’re going to go after them on your own. Now that you’re considered deceased it will be easier. And you need me to stay here in case you need back up.”

“He threatened John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. I’m more concerned with their safety.”

With those words, everything snapped into place for Mycroft. He had a sudden respect for his brother that had not existed before. “I have enough people, I can do both.”

Sherlock nodded in response. Mycroft stood and walked over to his desk. He pulled a file out from a drawer and handed it to his brother, “We’ll need to tell Mummy and Daddy.”

Sherlock winced, “I didn’t have time to think about the larger ramifications….”

Mycroft used a hand to wave away the rest of the statement it was enough that Sherlock acknowledged what his death had done to the family, “Leave that to me.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, “Why did you give him so much information? I never agreed to that much.”

Mycroft sighed, “Because I thought he would give us more information in return.”

Sherlock huffed, “Oh, he offered more information all right. He says there was no code.”

Mycroft’s voice softened, “You know as well as I that such a program is possible. We couldn’t take the chance…. Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I didn’t know if I could trust you, what with the amount of information you gave him….”

Sherlock’s voice tapered off, but Mycroft completed the thought for him. “You thought it was possible I was working with him. I failed you, but I didn’t betray you like that.”

Mycroft paused a moment before continuing. “John came to me. He was less than pleased. How am I to protect him when he will blame me for your death?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s more likely to blame himself for missing the little tells. He’ll blame himself because as a doctor, he should have been more aware of what the case was doing to me psychologically. Once he gets past that, then he will blame you. Besides, I know you have ways to keep an eye on people without their knowledge. It will be easier for me to do... What I have to do, if I know he’s safe.”

“It’s too risky, I don’t like the idea of you going alone.”

“Then you should cooperate and give me all the information you have. Regardless if you like it or not, I will be doing this. Right now, I’m the only one who can. Your assistance will speed the process up. Besides, it’s not like MI-6 hasn’t been waiting for such an opportunity for a long time.”

* * *

Mycroft worked his magic and was able to set up several different aliases for the first few legs of Sherlock’s journey. Mycroft did not want to know where his brother was going, but provided money in seven different currencies so that Sherlock would not have to risk exchanging it. Sherlock would use one alias for each leg of his journey, rotating them at the borders to make it more difficult to track him. 

The brothers made plans for how to get new aliases as time went on. The only request Mycroft made was that they were to remain in some form of contact. He provided Sherlock with a phone programed to change signatures every time Sherlock used it. This made it exceptionally difficult to trace by anyone who did not know the original settings. Sherlock for once was grateful that his brother would be able to locate him. The only downside was that Sherlock was effectively a secret agent for MI-6.

The brothers worked until late in the evening. Mycroft and Sherlock only went to bed once both brothers were satisfied with the initial plans. The next morning, they went to their parents’ house to explain what was happening. Mummy coddled Sherlock and Father did his own checks over Sherlock’s injuries. For once, Sherlock allowed for it without too much of a fuss. He owed that much to them given what he had put them through the past few days.

Once it was dark, Sherlock left. He did not tell anyone; he just exited his parents’ house and wandered on foot to the nearest mode of transportation. From that moment on, Sherlock Holmes was dead to the world. His only existence now was through the various aliases his brother set up for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My series [“Letters Home”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/663201) takes place during the hiatus. Some of them are now completely AU, but given what we’ve learned in Series 3, at the emotional level, they’re not as AU as I thought they were going to be. I will not add or change them to make them closer to canon – if only to respect the changes that I thought would happen leading up to S3.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know how much of the “Dismantling of Moriarty’s Network” I’m going to cover. Partly because of what I’ve written for the “Letters Home” series, but also because I don't feel clever enough to come up with cases/solutions for Sherlock to track the different parts. If there’s anything you want covered, post a note and I’ll see if I can make it happen.

_Got yourself in deep there…_ “The Empty Hearse”

Sherlock took a train from the village his parents lived to Harwich and then a ferry across the channel to Holland. He had decided to take the ‘scenic’ route to Budapest, Hungary. He hated public transport, but at least this way he would be able to get used to it on his terms and it would be a good way to test his first two aliases. This route was longer, but since people preferred taking the EuroStar in the winter months, he knew there would be fewer on this route – at least to begin with. It also meant that the trip would take about two and a half days, instead of the approximate 24 hours by the Euro. Since he usually flew, the journey would be longer than he experienced normally anyway. This would give him a chance to see the countryside. Besides, he did not know when he would have such an opportunity again and so he decided to make the most of it. 

He greatly enjoyed the level of anonymity he had on this journey. It allowed him to listen in on conversations about him without being discovered. It was an interesting conglomeration of reactions. Some people seemed to know about every article ever printed about him and they bemoaned the fact that he had tricked them all – his suicide proved his guilt. Others thought the most recent articles were all fabrications – “especially when compared to earlier articles” and “the poor man was driven to suicide.” Some people just did not seem to care one way or another. He even heard murmurings that he was not actually dead and would now be working in secret to solve the case of Richard Brook. Those were few and far between, but listening to their theories of how he survived always mad him chuckle. Some had certain aspects correct, but so far no one had gotten it right. Most were making it overly complex. 

Mycroft texted him to test that the phone would change signatures as programmed. It was in a code they had not used since they were much younger. It brought a small smile to his lips. But even the message was in code, not overly complex, just if people did not know what it meant, it would be ignored. A part of him was angered by the code name given to John. Still, in a way, it made sense, “Redbeard.” He sighed. The text let him know that two of the three snipers had been neutralised. Unfortunately, the one remaining had been the one aiming at John. _Well_ , Sherlock thought, _that’s just typical_.

He sent his reply, “Jycdfxgllc”.*

He waited a few moments, and then sent another: “Tjeezyddfx”.**

Again, this was to test the phone was shifting signals as intended. Mycroft wasted no time with his own reply and did not bother encoding it this time, since they now had confirmation that the phone was working properly. “Safe. Which is how I’d prefer you to remain.”

Sherlock smiled, the reply told him everything he needed to know; including the fact that the phone functioned properly. He did not bother with a reply; he did not want to press his luck. Besides, both brothers had all the information they needed for now. He settled back and tried to relax for the rest of the trip.

* * *

Sherlock stepped off the train in Budapest. The hotel he decided to stay was not the most idyllic place, but it was warm and the bed was comfortable enough. He was not asked too many questions and the television reception offered BBC London news. Really, it was all the comforts of home. Or at least it was the best he could hope for now that he was on this mission. He got himself settled in and decided to rest. He had not slept much on his trip – only drifting slightly while on the train. Now, he could rest a bit before getting started. His ankle had stopped throbbing and was down to a dull ache.

It was chilly in Budapest – Sherlock should have expected it, since it was mid-December, but then he figured the coldness he felt was not just related to the weather. He had to put all thoughts of his former life aside. Sherlock Holmes was dead. All that remained were the aliases that Mycroft would set up for him. At this point, it was all for John and his beloved city of London. If Mycroft was right, and Sherlock had no reason to doubt him, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were safe enough. London would always be at risk, but he would willingly defend the city that Moriarty tried to rip from his grasp. London was his city and there was no way he was going to let anyone else have it.

Three days later, Sherlock was packing to leave Budapest. He had found a trail to follow, but Moriarty’s Network had either left already, or had never been established there to begin with. Still, he had several leads. One of which would take him to South America. He did not communicate to his brother where he was going. He simply made his travel arrangements, paid his fee to the hotel, and left.

For the most part, that was how Sherlock travelled for the next six months. Sometimes he came across several members of the Network – when that happened, he would take his time, ensuring they were part of the Network before he took any action. He had told Moriarty that he was on the side of the angels, but he was not one of them. Now, it seemed he was living out the truth of that statement. Most recently, he was distracted by a message that came from his brother: “Return immediately.”

That was all it said. Sherlock did not waste time. He had made his way to the USA and was in the middle of dismantling a cell in Great Falls, Montana. He had to complete the job quickly, rather than cautiously. Calling it a “bloody mess” would not be a swear. He was not what one would call sloppy, but usually his methods were less personal. Given Mycroft’s text, time was of the essence. While Montana was not known for such violent murders, given it was, as far as the police were concerned, a gang of drug dealers, Sherlock also knew the attack would be treated as part of the gang war.

Sherlock then took the next available flight back to London. It was not until he met with Mycroft that he understood the urgency. There was a large cell in India that needed careful planning to dismantle. The fact that his headstone was finally installed and John and Mrs Hudson were to visit the coming weekend was told to him as an after-thought. Sherlock would not be so careless as to let them see him, but he wanted to see them. No. He _needed_ to see them. Before he left for India, he needed the reminder of why he was doing this.

Mycroft took a breath before Sherlock left his office, “There is one more thing.” He stood, walked to a cupboard, opened it, and pulled out Sherlock’s Belstaff. “He returned it to Molly after a week. She then got in touch with me saying I should keep it. I had it cleaned, but I thought you should know it is safe.”

Sherlock looked at the coat and nearly touched it, but stayed his hand, “When this is over, then I have earned the right to wear it again.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows furrowed. “You haven’t…”

Sherlock shook his head. “Do you really think I could do this if I was high?”

Mycroft swallowed once and nodded. “Then why do you think you need to earn it?”

“It’s my fault that everyone was in danger. Until I set that right…”

His voice trailed off. Mycroft put the coat away, “It will be safe with me.” 

* * *

When Sherlock heard John confess such belief in him, it reaffirmed that he was doing the right thing. Still, he also decided that he would never tell John what he was doing during his time away. While John, as a soldier, would understand the actions he took, Sherlock would never burden John with knowing the kind of skilled assassin and killer he had become. Sherlock’s interest in sensational murders and his desire to know how to solve ‘unsolvable crimes’ meant that he was highly skilled at framing others, or making each death appear to be an accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the internet reaction to TRF, which inspired a bit of this chapter.
> 
> To figure out what Sherlock sends in his text, look at your keyboard. Yes, I think the keyboard layout is memorised in Mycroft’s & Sherlock’s Mind Palaces. (What? Don’t you want to have some fun too?)
> 
> *For the visually impaired this text is: ”Understood”  
> **For the visually impaired this text is: ”Buccaneers”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not touching Anderson’s cases as presented in “Many Happy Returns” mostly because we’ve seen them at this point. But also, because it’s hard to know if those were cases Sherlock worked, or simply Anderson’s interpretation of the real cases. 
> 
> This is a shorter chapter, because of how the flow got divided up.
> 
> * * *

_Waded in…_ “The Empty Hearse”

It was six months later – roughly a year after his ‘death’ when it finally happened. The first few months, it had been hard for him. He would lock his actions – murders committed – into a room and then delete the room. Except, that did not always work. The room would pop up again – in the most random places in his Mind Palace and at the least opportune times. He had found ways to mask the effects: focus all of the energy into a slight tremor of his left hand. But other times, they would sneak up on him by snaking their ways into terrible nightmares, where the people he had killed morphed into his closest friends. He would wake drenched in sweat and with the lingering guilt that he was not doing enough to protect his friends.

There was a small cell in Ponducherry City in India. By small, it was a cluster of several cells, but only comprised of about 30 people total. While Ponducherry itself was a small city – by Indian standards. French was still an official language and widely used, which was excellent, since most of the other languages, Sherlock was only able to pick up bits and pieces. Each dialect had it’s own uniqueness and that could not be easily faked. Sherlock knew that, by and large, these 30 people stuck to themselves. That was good; it would make dispatching them easier.

“Dispatching.” That was another trick he used to put a positive spin on what he was doing: dispatching, dismantling, subverting. He would avoid words like demolish, decimate, sabotage, extinguish. Even in his own mind, when he started to use words from the second list, his heart rate and breathing would increase to a level that was uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, he would need to ensure every member of this cell was addressed at the same time. That is what took the most planning. In the end, his past experience with drugs is what gave him the idea for how to address his problem. It was funny, he had not thought of Isa Whitney in ages, but the explosion that had rocked the drug dens, the fact that it had been the RRA, gave him ideas for what he could do this time.

It only took another few days to get everything arranged. The abandoned building was perfect for his purposes and he was able to acquire enough drugs to make the whole thing look like a drug-making operation accident. The explosion would be spectacular. Too bad he could not be around to witness his handiwork. He had positioned himself in a café on the other side of the city. It was an exceptionally public place where many people would be able to vouch for his presence. It was on a bit of a hill, so when the explosion happened, he could see the glow. His flight was scheduled for early the next morning and he had made the reservations several days ago, so there should not be any suspicions raised. 

He kept one vial of liquid cocaine and a packet of needles. It was oddly reassuring to have it – especially as it seemed his method of deleting information and rooms was not working as well as he wanted.

Sherlock left Ponducherry City, the plane taking him North to Rajgarh. He was berating himself, for it had been a full year already and he felt like he had barely scratched the surface. He and Mycroft had not kept in close contact; occasional text messages – phone calls when Sherlock needed to hear a familiar human voice – but not much more than that. This time, he contacted Mycroft only to let him know to not panic if he did not contact him for several weeks. It was nearing Christmas and he felt he needed a short break.

Mycroft suggested an exchange of identities, to ensure that Sherlock would not be discovered. This would mean Sherlock would have to turn everything over – from the phone to his clothing, from his watch to the colour of his hair. Sherlock understood why Mycroft was making the request. Sherlock only asked for two files that were on the current phone to be saved to the new one: one contained information that he needed to think about before planning his next move and the other was – personal. It was a series of letters he was writing to those back home. He had no contact with anyone who knew him – besides the occasional contact with Mycroft, but that was usually via text, so hardly counted. The letters helped to remind him why he was doing this; especially on the nights he wanted it to be over. Mycroft acquiesced after some discussion.

Except for dyeing his hair, everything else took a total of ten minutes. Colouring his hair would be done in his hotel – he would wear a head covering while he checked in. Sherlock felt like he was moving father and farther away from being himself, but the changes also made him feel safe again. Though, for the purpose of ease, he was dyeing his hair back to its natural colour. He just did not want to deal with anything while he took this break to collect himself. Though, he did get a haircut - some would call it a buzz-cut.

Paranoia was an interesting thing. Just because he was ‘dead to the world’ did not mean that he was ever ‘safe.’ The past year had taught him that he was very rarely ‘safe.’

Mycroft insisted that Sherlock use one of the typical tourist hotels this time. If Sherlock was to take a break, Mycroft wanted to give Sherlock a proper rest – all of Sherlock’s needs would be taken care of by the hotel staff. Mycroft felt his brother deserved this small bit of luxury. Beyond paying the bills, Mycroft would leave his brother alone, but should Sherlock decide to continue on with his mission, he was to first notify him.

Of all the things Mycroft could have worried about, that should have been at the bottom of his list.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for kidnapping and torture. Longer chapter because it made more sense.
> 
> * * *

_Remember sleep?_ “The Empty Hearse”

A break had been the plan. But funny how any plans Sherlock had made for himself in the past couple of years had ever gone the way he wanted. He had been at the hotel a week. He was finally feeling like he could calm down a bit and he was working on improving his Hindi. He was still not as talented at it as he wanted, but he was getting good enough to get by.

The terrorists were not after any single person in particular, though it took Sherlock longer than it should have to figure that out. Paranoia can do that: distract one from the reality of a situation – especially when that situation closely alights to what is believed to be happening. And perhaps, what is secretly hoped to happen – just so everything is over. Now, it seemed, he had an opportunity to let it end.

They had captured him when he was out for a walk – something he had taken to doing in the past week. But since he was just walking, he did not have many things on him – most had been left in his hotel room. They blindfolded him as soon as he was in the van. His hands and feet were bound and then they went through all of his pockets, taking anything of value. He was glad that his hotel key had no distinguishing marks on it; they probably would not take the time to go find his room. For the first time, Sherlock was grateful for Mycroft’s insistence that he change identities. He was also glad that he had not planned to walk far from the hotel – that meant his phone, among other things were safe.

Sherlock had learned enough Hindi that he could understand their conversation. Unfortunately, that did not provide him with much information. They alternated between broken French and broken English. Sherlock decided it would be best to convince them he was French. He hoped that would convince them to continue in Hindi or even English if they spoke to each other.

Sherlock was still too new to the city to be able to discern his location simply with his hearing. He knew he had been brought into a large building – he could tell from the scant echoes he was able to pick up. But, it could have been anything: a warehouse, an aeroplane hanger, or a car park. The terrorist released his feet, but not his hands and he was made to walk. He heard the door in the floor open and then they released his hands. He was forced, while blindfolded, to make his way down the ladder.

His captors gave him no indication how close he was to the ground nor what kind of ladder he was on. He slipped twice, the first time, was because the ladder was slightly damp, but he was able to regain control of his body. The second was because there was a missing rung and no one had told him. He slid down, his chin catching on one of the rungs, which jarred him enough to make his hands release. He fell backwards, his head hitting the wall behind him – must have been rather close quarters where the ladder was. Finally, he landed on the ground. He was out of breath from the shock of the fall and he could tell his body would hurt worse tomorrow than it did right now. Being blindfolded did nothing to help him regain a sense of equilibrium, but at least he was on solid ground again. He hoped he did not have a concussion.

They laughed at him as they forced him to his feet and they walked a surprising distance. Sherlock was disorientated. Between the blindfold and the fall, his sense of direction was shattered. The only thing he could tell was that there was a slight downward slope to the floor. Wherever he was being taken was quite far below ground. Finally, he heard a metal door being unlocked. He was shoved through it and at the same time, his blindfold was removed.

The room he was in was non-descript. There was a single dim light above him. The ceiling was at least four meters up, even if he could jump high enough, he would never be able to reach it. There were no windows that he could see and only a small ventilation shaft in the ceiling. The only other option for exit was the single metal door he had been pushed through. There was a drain in the floor, too small to be good for anything useful, and a rumpled piece of cloth in the corner, which he supposed was to pass for a blanket or pillow. Other than that, the room was bare.

A few minutes later, the light went out, plunging the detective into total darkness. Sherlock had expected it. Though, it started much sooner than he thought. They were going to reset his circadian rhythm. It was a typical tactic – confuse the detainee’s sense of time passing. Still, that made Sherlock squirm at the thought. He hoped they did not use any other forms of mental torture. While not torture in the strictest sense, having his circadian rhythm changed would be hard enough. He tried to measure the passage of time anyway – he failed, but it gave him something to do. He might have drifted off to sleep, but in the total darkness, it was hard to be sure.

Suddenly the room was flooded with light again. What he had at first thought was a dim light now felt blinding. He heard the sound of a key being slotted into the lock of the door. A small slot at the bottom of the metal door opened and a napkin with rice and beans and a small paper cup of water were pushed in. Well, at least he would be fed and watered. They wanted him alive, which was a good sign.

He was not hungry, but since he did not know when he might be allowed to eat again, he ate it. That should have been a signal to himself how far he had fallen: he did not even consider that it could be drugged. It could have been poisoned, but he would not care at this moment, because it would mean an end to his exile. He took a couple of sips of water and saved the rest.

The food must have been drugged because not long after he ate, he became very tired.

He woke in a different room. His wrists and ankles were chained to a wall. He took a small comfort that he was close enough to it that could rest his head against it. His was stripped to his pants and his back faced the centre of the room. The way he was chained, even his peripheral vision did not give him a good idea of what was happening behind him. 

He could hear movement. One, possibly two others were in the room with him. Suddenly, he heard the sound of a whip crack through the air and hit his back. The shock of it made him cry out in both pain and surprise. But now that he knew what to expect, he was able to remain silent the rest of the time, other than small grunts at the pain. They gave him ten lashes before they released him and led him back to his cell.

The first three days, (actual days, Sherlock would later learn) his captors did not even ask him any questions, they just came in at strategic times and used him as a punching bag. That was the most annoying part. Sherlock could deal with a lot of things – but not knowing was its own special kind of torture for him.

He had some comforts, beyond the food and water. First, there were no attempts to alter his mind beyond his circadian rhythm and what such beatings would do to anyone. These terrorists clearly did not know who he was or his abilities, or that would be the first thing they would attack. He was still presumed to be his alias as far as he could tell. That was good. They cared for the wounds the whipping had left – since it had only been ten lashes, Sherlock expected the wounds were not too bad. Still, it was good to know they were aware of infection. Another major comfort was John’s voice. It would alternate between berating him for being so stupid to get caught and encouraging him to continue to fight when he wanted to give up. John’s voice was getting louder and more insistent as each day passed. Sherlock was not even sure he was remembering John’s voice accurately, but the constant dialogue was somewhat welcome, compared to the silence that had been his constant companion. John’s voice in his head had grown loud enough to almost be shouting at him constantly. But as long as he did not answer back out loud, he felt completely justified in ‘hearing voices.’ The final comfort was he was not whipped again. It was a hell of a way for him to be introduced to his captivity, but he was glad it was not a constant part of it.

Sherlock could deal with the beatings. He even had found a way to deal with his body waste while he was in the cell. But when the torture started, he started to get angry and confused. John’s voice was the first to raise the doubt, “ _If they did not know who you are, why would they do this to you?_ ”

“Shut-up, John.”

“ _Oh, if only I could, Sherlock._ ”

Sherlock smacked the side of his head harder than necessary against the wall and then John went quiet.

* * *

Sherlock could handle the beatings, the sleep depravation, even the limits set on his food and water consumption. But then, the actual tortures began. As tortures went, they were not the worst he would come to face. But the pointlessness of them was aggravating. They very rarely asked him any questions and it did not matter if he answered the questions or not – the torture was still imposed.

The annoying drip torture did not affect him as much as it would others because the idiots did not adjust the timing of the drips. Once Sherlock found the rhythm to it, he just escaped to his Mind Palace. That was simple enough. Waterboarding, however… To say he hated it would be an understatement. It felt too much like drowning and he decided that if he never went swimming again, it would be too soon. It was the experience of waterboarding that convinced him he needed to escape and very quickly.

It took him another three days to plan his escape. After the waterboarding started, his captors lowered their defences. Stupid move, really, especially with a prisoner like Sherlock. In the end, it did not take as much as he thought it would. The grate covering the drain was made up of thin rolls of metal, rather than a disc with holes in it. It took time, but eventually, he was able to get them loose enough to pull them up and apart. The keyhole to the door was similar to that of a skeleton key. “ _Idiots_ ,” Sherlock thought, “ _That’s not secure at all_.”

Now that he had something he could use to pick the lock, it would be fairly easy, he just had to time it. He took to sleeping near the door. He was actually able to hear the ambiance of the place he was held captive. They had given up on drugging or blindfolding him to move him from room to room, so he had a decent idea of the layout of this level of the complex. Now, he just had to wait for the right time.

* * *

In the end, his escape was easy. “ _I told you, you should have tried sooner…_ ”

Sherlock hissed aloud, “Shut up, John!”

He had long since given up on not talking back to the voice in his head. As Sherlock made his way down the hall, he saw a monitoring room. No one was in there, but there were a stack of files on the desk. He grabbed them all. He made his way further down the hall, where he heard showers running. He stuck in and put on the clothes that he found laying in the dressing area. They did not quite fit, and the cloth tore at the scabs from the lashes, but they would help him blend in well enough and the boots happened to be the right size, so he did not really care about the rest – protecting his feet was the most important thing. There was even a small bag that he would be able to use to carry the files. Things were finally starting to go his way.

While a part of him wanted to exact his revenge, the other part of him did not want to get twisted up in this mess any further. Right now, he just needed to get out. He heard voices coming down the hall, so he ducked into another room. There were clear bags hung in here. He recognised some of the belongings in one of them. “ _Perfect_.”

“For once, I can’t argue with you, John.”

Sherlock grabbed that bag, stuffed the bag with the files into it, and then waited by the door for the voices to pass. “ _Right. Quickly now_.”

For as much as John’s voice annoyed him, he still trusted it. As soon as the voice told him to go, he started to move. It was amazing how much he had learned in the few days? Weeks? He had been there. The layout was unbelievably simple and now that he had a uniform, he was able to navigate with ease. He knew he did not have long before they realised he had escaped, so he did not waste time trying to look for others held there. He could always forward the information to Mycroft and let him take care of it.

He was ecstatic to find a lift. While he had to take a risk that it might have cameras or other forms of security, he still figured it would be safer to use it, rather than to try to go out the way they had brought him in. He found a key card in one of the pockets and swiped it. With that, the lift began to move. Sherlock held his breath. He was a sitting duck from now until the lift opened. The lift came to a stop and Sherlock prepared himself to have his escape stopped. But the lift opened to a car park.

Sherlock exited the lift and started to pad through the pockets again. He found a set of keys. Luckily, they had a fob lock, he clicked the “lock car” button, and he heard a beep further down. He continued to press the button until he got to the car, then he unlocked it, and got in. He was almost home free now. Just had to get out of the car park. There was a gate, but it was unmanned. Sherlock scanned the ID and the gate lifted. He wasted no time looking back, and tore out of the drive.

He saw a city to the left and bluffs to his right. He figured his hotel would be to the right, but he did not want to get lost. So, he drove towards the city. Besides, this way, he could dump the car and get public transport back to the hotel. Once he found a place to leave the car, he changed into his clothes, and then left everything else behind.

Even with the change of clothes, Sherlock second-guessed himself the entire way to the hotel. But, it seemed he was safe enough. He went straight to his room and barricaded himself as much as he could.  Then he pulled out the files and started to do some research.

Three weeks. He had been there for three weeks. While there had been other captives recently, according to the files, Sherlock was the only one left at that point. He took small comfort that he had not left anyone behind. He thought the files would give him some insight into what they were doing and why. Maybe the torture had gotten to him, because he could not see the pattern.

Four hours later, he had sent the necessary information to Mycroft and some government team or another – Sherlock really did not care by that point – performed a raid and dismantled the entire operation. Sherlock, for his part, had taken a long, hot shower and gone to bed.


	23. Chapter 23

_Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear._ – “The Empty Hearse”

During the next roughly seven months, Sherlock continued in the same manner. He tried to avoid getting captured or seriously wounded. Sometimes that was easier said than done. He was never seriously wounded. At least no wounds that he could not stitch and mend himself. Occasionally, one would be in an area that was difficult to reach, however he always was able to make friends with at least one homeless person that he was able to go to for help. Mostly, Sherlock learned just how much pain he was able to endure at any given moment. Of course, John’s voice accompanied him everywhere – sometimes offering help, other times only mocking comments.

Mycroft had become quite overprotective of his brother after all that had happened in Rajgarh, but Sherlock could only tolerate that for so long. As the network became smaller, Sherlock had less contact with Mycroft. It was, quite frankly, too dangerous. He would send a coded message when he was about to go after another cell, or if a drop point needed to be arranged, but that was all the contact he had. 

Sherlock was certain that the Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle. What he had not counted on was Baron Maupertuis possessing such a cunning nature. He knew he had to time his escape perfectly. However, the Baron had let him go; he had not counted on that. He had been there for about seven weeks – give or take a week. It was difficult to count given the torture to which they were subjecting him. His attempted escape only meant more beatings. Still, this time one of the guard leaders was in the room – that was new and different. When the leader spoke, Sherlock had to keep all his wits about him. Mycroft was there and he would ensure they both got out alive.

Mycroft was surprisingly gentle as he released Sherlock’s shackles. Once freed, Sherlock slumped against his brother. His head lulled against Mycroft’s shoulder and Sherlock was able to smell his brother. It smelled like safety – like home, not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

“ _I told you, Sherlock,_ friends _protect people_.”

The voice in Sherlock’s head had become more than a voice over the past few months. Sherlock replied hoarsely, “’S not my friend.”

“Hush, now,” Mycroft’s tone was gentle, even if it was a command, “It’s over, we’re going home. You can complain all you want once we’re safe.”

Sherlock still was not sure what was real. But he could hear the special ops teams sweeping through the compound, obviously killing everyone in sight. The few who were not killed were taken into custody. Medics met them at the door, waiting with a stretcher. Sherlock was laid on his stomach, so they could start working on his back as soon as they were in the helicopter. The doctor on board gave Sherlock a sedative, which allowed her to work without Sherlock fighting it.

It was not long before the helicopter landed and they changed to a private jet. The doctor continued to work on Sherlock. She took x-rays with a portable machine and ran an ultrasound, which revealed nothing needing immediate attention. However, it revealed just what a toll the past two years had on Sherlock’s body. Several bones had obviously been broken and tended to poorly – if they received any attention at all. While surgery would not be needed on any of his internal organs, it was clear they were bruised and either in various stages of healing or had scar tissue on them.

After a couple hours, the sedative wore off – they still had another hour before they reached London, so Sherlock began the debriefing process. Well that is what he had been told. It was actually a psychological evaluation. Mycroft needed to make sure his brother was as fit as possible. The threat London was under could accept nothing but Sherlock being in the best shape possible.

Just before landing, Dr Henry Misgrove sat down to go over everything with Mycroft. Before he could start speaking, Mycroft held up a hand and spoke slowly, “I don’t want to know details. Right now, I just need to know if he’s fit enough for work and will he be a danger to himself or others.”

The doctor nodded his understanding. “I am concerned about the possibility of PTSD, but as of right now, I don’t see a reason why he can’t work.”

Mycroft gestured that the doctor should continue.

“It would be best if someone kept an eye on him. At least for the first few weeks. Some of what I’m picking up may be a reaction to being rescued. But as far as his fitness for this task, I don’t see a reason why he shouldn’t be able to handle it. Given his past, it might help him to get back into his work as soon as possible.”

Mycroft nodded and dismissed the therapist. “Thank you, Doctor. I will keep an eye on him and ensure he stays busy.”

That was not going to be too difficult, Mycroft had a list of clients he could set up for Sherlock and he was fairly certain that Lestrade had several boxes of files.

Sherlock’s demeanour when Mycroft was doing his own debriefing seemed at least somewhat normal, which put his worries at ease a bit. Sherlock could be unbelievably single-minded, when he wanted to be. Still, it was a bit of a relief. Oh, Mycroft would still keep an eye on his brother. He would visit the next day, but for now, he had to prepare the press statements that would reveal that Sherlock was alive.

* * *

 

Sherlock knew he had to reveal himself to everyone before the news broke the next day. He could tell that John’s attacks had pulled at the stiches in his back. He could not fight John, though. Would not fight him. He deserved everything that John gave to him – and more. Still it hurt. Not just physically, though that was an issue. But it hurt emotionally too, which Sherlock was not used to.

His first stop was to see Molly. Partly because she deserved to know he was back for good, but also because he needed help. He needed the stiches checked and there was no one else he could turn to. The conversation was awkward, but not uncomfortable. She looked over his stiches and fixed the ones that needed repair. Sherlock invited her over to his place the next day to check them again. She had work in the morning, but would come after lunch.

The most surprising welcome came from Greg Lestrade. People had barely offered him a kind word, let alone touch him. The hug hurt his stitches almost as bad as John’s attacks and that was on top of the fact that Sherlock rarely let people touch him anyway. It was the first proper welcome he had received and so he tolerated it. Greg released the younger man and just stared at him for the longest time before speaking, “You’re alive.”

“Haven’t lost your ability to state the obvious, I see.”

Sherlock offered a small smirk. Greg’s expression broke into a beaming smile. He had missed the younger man. More so than he was ever willing to let on. He gestured to his car, “Come on, I’ll give you a lift to… Baker Street?”

Sherlock nodded once. “You need a drink first.”

“Nah, I might question it tomorrow if I drink tonight. I mean it’s not everyday that someone comes back from the dead.”

Sherlock offered a small grin and got into the car.

After Lestrade dropped him off, he paced outside the door of 221 for sometime, debating what to do. More than anything he wanted to climb into bed, but he was unsure if he would be allowed. He had asked Mycroft about John, but not Mrs Hudson. After some minutes, he opened the door and walked in. Mrs Hudson was standing there with a look of worry, which dissolved into shock and ended with her screaming for several seconds. He could not help the smile he offered her. He had missed his Landlady.

Mrs Hudson ultimately dropped the pan she was holding and slowly approached him. She reached out with one hesitant hand and took hold of the lapel of his Belstaff coat. She gasped, “You’re really here.”

Sherlock did smile at that. “I’m not dead.”

“I can see that.”

Sherlock could stand it no longer and slowly wrapped Mrs Hudson into a hug. She gently returned his hug. She cried tears of joy for some minutes. Then seemed to come back to her senses, she slapped him on the arm. “You cheek! All this time you let us think…”

Sherlock nodded and spoke gently, “I know. I can try to explain.” 

“You’d better do more than ‘try’ if I’m going to put a snack together for you. Well, don’t doddle, get yourself settled upstairs, I’ll be up in a minute.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly before he replied, “It’s all still there?”

Now it was Mrs Hudson’s turn to grin like a loon, “Well, I didn’t know what to do with your stuff and… I couldn’t face letting it out – it just seemed too soon. Besides, even when I hit rough patches, I always seemed to have enough money.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock bent over to kiss is landlady on the cheek. Not for the first time today, he was glad sentiment won out. He was glad Mycroft had taken care of his land-lady while he had been away. “I’ll see you shortly.”

With that, he turned and took to the stairs, sometimes two at a time. He opened the door to the flat. It was a bit tidier than he had left it. He did not know if that was John’s doing or Mrs Hudson’s. He shed his coat and hung it on its hook. Then he went to the windows to pull the curtains shut. He was not yet quite ready for the world to know he was alive – that would come soon enough.

He moved through to his bedroom, which was exactly how he remembered it being. “ _See? This is what_ friends _do for each other_.”

John’s voice was still with him, then. That was unfortunate. Sherlock changed out of his suit and put on a pair of pyjama bottoms and a pullover. He used the loo, pleased to see that even his toiletries were still around. Good thing such products do not go stale. He took a flannel and washed up a bit. It would be several days before he could take a shower and he would not be able to have a proper soak in the tub until the stitches came out. When he came out, he shrugged into his favourite blue dressing gown. It had been a long time since he had worn it. He was finally starting to feel like himself again. He found some pain medicine that had not yet expired, which he took double the recommended dose. Then, he sat in his chair and carefully leaned back. He was tired and that was lowering his pain tolerance. He hoped the pain meds would start working soon.

Sherlock had timed it perfectly. Mrs Hudson came up only thirty seconds later. She carried a tray with tea items and faery cakes. Then she set about pouring the tea and putting a couple of cakes on a plate. She handed everything to Sherlock, then set about making herself something similar, and finally settled into John’s chair. She grinned at him broadly and with her quiet enthusiasm, spoke, “You’re here. _Really_ here. And they finally cleared your name a just a week or so ago.”

Sherlock’s tone expressed how scandalous he found that, “A _week_? Lestrade really is rubbish without me around.”

Mrs Hudson continued on as if Sherlock had not spoken, “So, what happened? Why did you leave and why come back now?”

For a minute he debated how much he could tell her and how she would respond. Finally he sighed heavily and spoke softly, “Moriarty needed to be stopped. And the best way to stop him was to make him think I was dead.”

Mrs Hudson’s face fell slightly at that, “And you couldn’t chance any of us knowing.”

Sherlock nodded. He knew Mrs Hudson would be quick to understand. He took a sip of his tea as she continued, “But it was on the news that he was dead….”

Sherlock shook his head, “He had a whole network. I had to make sure it was… taken care of.”

He still had not decided how best to talk about it. In his own head, he needed to separate the killings he had committed from everything else.

Mrs Hudson nodded. “And you’re… Everything is okay now?”

Sherlock noticed a slight tremor in one of his hands. He set his cup aside and folded his hands in his lap to disguise it. “London is as safe as it ever is.”

Mrs Hudson looked at him for some time. “Well, I bet you’re looking forward to sleeping in your own bed tonight.” 

Sherlock groaned softly with a sense of finding something that’s been lost for a long time, “You have no idea.”

“Well, I’ll let you get to it, then.”

Sherlock gave her a nod and with that, she left the room. He then made his way to his bedroom, eventually settling in to sleep. As much as he could remember, he did not dream at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I posted this last week! Clearly not. Sorry about that. Also, the chapters are getting longer again. I'm not sorry for that LOL


	24. Chapter 24

_Sherlock, you are gonna tell me how you did it? How you jumped off that building and survived_? – “The Empty Hearse”

Sherlock had saved London once again. He had only been back a week, but it was almost as if he had never left. Almost. 

They had decided for John to return to Baker Street that Saturday – November the Eighth. “A sleepover!” Mary had teased both of them as they had discussed it after the Engagement Party. Sherlock had pulled a face, but he was immensely grateful that Mary not only accepted him, but encouraged he and John spend time together without her. He liked her. She was perfectly suited for John in every way he could imagine. She clearly liked him as well and did not seem put-off by any of his eccentricities. The only other girlfriend who had come close had been Sarah. He could tell that Mary liked him as well. That gave him hope that things might not change as much as he was dreading.

John was going to bring Chinese from the restaurant at the end of the road and Sherlock was going to attempt to sit through whatever film John was going to pick. “ _See, this is how friendship works!_ ”

Sherlock smacked the side of his head, “Shut up, John, I don’t need you now. The real one is going to be here any minute.”

Sherlock was dressed in his favourite pyjama bottoms and a long sleeved pullover. He was wrapped in his warmer maroon robe. When John showed up, he too changed into more comfortable clothes before setting out the meals. John put in a DVD, it was a comedy, and they watched it as they ate. Once they were done eating, Sherlock complained constantly about every detail of the show, John sighed, and turned it off once that episode had ended.

John had forgotten how bad it could be to watch telly with Sherlock. He stood, went to the kitchen, and found a small bottle of whiskey – new. He smirked to himself; leave it to Sherlock to be a good host even when he was not a good host. He pulled down two tumblers, poured a couple of fingers full in each, put the cap on the bottle, put it back on the shelf, and then carried the two tumblers out to the sitting room. He handed one to Sherlock before he returned to sit in his own chair. After John took a couple of sips, he looked at Sherlock for a long moment. “Sherlock, I know you want to tell me, so just do it already.”

Sherlock was in the middle of a sip, which he stopped so he could raise an eyebrow in question to John.

John sighed heavily, “The _jump_. How did you do it?”

“I couldn’t explain why I didn’t tell you to your satisfaction. You think I can explain the mechanics of that process without upsetting you?” 

It was a cop-out. Both of them knew it. “Please, Sherlock.”

John’s tone was soft and had a pleading quality to it that Sherlock did not hear often from the Army Doctor. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed and John continued, “Because when we were on that carriage and I was waiting for the bomb to go off… I had a…”

Sherlock perked up a tiny bit; John had definitely gotten his attention. He gestured. “You had a….” 

John took a sip of is whiskey before continuing, “A vision, I guess.” He chuckled softly, “Quite a different place from ‘Please, God, let me live.’ Huh?”

Sherlock set his tumbler aside, giving John more of his attention, “And in this vision…”

“You told Philip Anderson everything. How you got the whole thing to work. You even used his first name! And I stood there wondering why you would tell him and wouldn’t tell me. How’s that for my ‘very last thought’?”

Sherlock pulled a look of disdain at that. “He’s the last person I would tell. Besides, he and his little club had nearly every element correct. They just hadn’t realised which parts of each of their theories were correct. And, well, they didn’t have them in the right order.”

“And what _is_ the right order?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and then explained how everything ended up working: from the moment they had parted ways at Kitty’s flat until Mrs Hudson had come to collect John from Bart’s. Sherlock, for once explained things plainly and John did not interrupt.

John finished off the rest of his drink in one go and then stared steadily at Sherlock. Hearing it all again, even from Sherlock’s perspective raised all the emotions again. He did not know if he was angrier with Moriarty and Mycroft for putting Sherlock in that position or with Sherlock for not asking for help. He replied softly, trying to keep his anger at bay, “What did you mean when you said, ‘You heard me’?” 

Sherlock lowered his head. “I told you, I was _there_ , John. When you…” He sighed and looked at John again while he made an awkward gesture to indicate the grave.

John was again looking less than pleased with Sherlock, so Sherlock rushed to continue, “Mycroft had told me that the headstone had been installed and that you and Mrs Hudson were due to visit… I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t.”

John nodded once, decided to get himself another glass of whiskey, and sat back down when he had it. He began slowly and softly, “So, you heard all of that – you _knew_ how your supposed death affected me and you still stayed silent.” 

“Mycroft tried to stop me from going…”

John chuckled in disbelief, “Oh, please.”

“John, what do you want me to say? I’ve apologised, asked for forgiveness, told you how I did it. I don’t know what else you want from me!?”

As Sherlock spoke, his voice grew louder until he was shouting at the end. John was shocked. He had expected many things from his friend, but _this_? Sherlock showed loss of control over his emotion. John had not expected that. He stared at Sherlock for a long moment, unsure what to do or say, and that is when he saw a single tear slip down Sherlock’s cheek. Before he quite knew what he was doing, John had moved from his chair and wrapped his friend in a hug. It was an awkward position, given Sherlock’s chair, but John managed somehow. 

Sherlock tensed as John’s arms wrapped around him. More from pain than from the discomfort that usually rose in him when others touched him. As John ran his hand across Sherlock’s back, trying to comfort him, Sherlock could not withhold the whimper of pain that escaped his lips. The stitches still hurt even though he was due to see Molly tomorrow to have them removed. He had wanted to protect John from this part of his story.

John pulled back. “Sherlock? What is it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing.”

John stared him down and slowly returned one hand to Sherlock’s back. “It doesn’t feel like ‘nothing.’ Sherlock?”

Sherlock debated quickly what to say or do. Finally he slowly raised his head, “You’ll feel bad if I tell you.”

John’s brows furrowed at that. “Why would I feel bad?”

Sherlock sighed, “It’ll be easier if I show you.”

Sherlock slowly stood, slipping out of his robe as he did. The robe sank to the chair and Sherlock lifted the pullover off as well. John was mortified to see the thick bandages on Sherlock’s back. He then remembered attacking his friend to the floor at the restaurant. He swallowed thickly. “I-I… didn’t… when I…” 

Sherlock shook his head. “They were there before…” He broke off. This was not something he wanted to tell John. Finally he slowly turned, “It’s time for the stitches to come out. Do – Would you mind helping?”

John swallowed as he nodded. “Is the emergency kit still in the bathroom?” 

“Yes. And I restocked it the other day.”

“Okay. Bathroom or kitchen?”

“Probably more room in the kitchen.” 

With that John went to collect the kit from the bathroom. Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, turned one of the chairs around, and cleared a space on the table in front of the chair. He sat facing the back of the chair and made sure there was enough room to rest his head on his arms, in case he got tired. Then he cleared off another space for John to use. By that time, John had returned and started to make his preparations. This was not the first time they had done this. The various injuries each had acquired and helped each other to mend over the years had taught them the quickest and easiest way to handle these things.

Once everything was situated and Sherlock was again sitting in the chair, John began to work. He first removed the bandages. He tried not to gasp when he saw the number of places that stitches had been used. The whole of Sherlock’s back was a multitude of colours: each bruise in various states of healing. John swallowed thickly, “God, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I…”

“It’s fine. Just… It’s time for them to come out.”

John nodded as he carefully inspected the skin for infection and to make sure the wounds were healed enough that he could remove the stitches. Sherlock gasped softly as a couple of areas were tender. John had to keep reminding himself to be in “Doctor Mode.” He just had to pretend that this was no different from any other time he had taken various stitches out for Sherlock.

“I think a couple of these are starting to get infected. But the wounds are healed enough; I can take all the stitches out. Do you want anything for the pain? This is going to take awhile and won’t be pleasant.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I took some ibuprofen earlier.”

“Right. Well, when I get partway through, I’ll take a break and you can have more. I think when I’m done, you should take a bath, and then I’ll clean the wounds properly when you’re done before I dress them.”

Sherlock smiled and his voice was deep with pleasure, “I can’t say when the last time I had a proper bath was…”

“Good, that’s settled.”

With that, John started to work. It took about ninety minutes for John to get all the stitches out. As promised, when he took a break, he let Sherlock have more ibuprofen. He gave Sherlock an extra pill, hoping it would help the man to sleep later. Both men remained silent through this process. It was their habit, if the case had been particularly hard or still unsolved, that they would not talk, so this was not unusual. 

Sherlock’s bath lasted about an hour. While he was bathing, John had texted Molly because Sherlock had mentioned she had restitched some of the wounds herself. He wanted to make sure he had gotten all of the stitches. Once he had done his counts, he cleaned up the mess and sterilised the area so he could clean and dress the wounds.

Finally, once everything was done, the two prepared for bed. John moved upstairs and Sherlock moved to his bedroom. John waited about twenty minutes and then he returned to the sitting room. He settled in on the couch, so he could be close by, if Sherlock needed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock described how he faked his death, following what was provided in [Chapter 18](https://archiveofourown.org/works/887144/chapters/7304072).
> 
> Also, this is how I explain away the "Lazarus Solution". It's far easier to believe it was what John thought happened than it is to try to explain/fix all the holes that we were left with in that solution.
> 
> So basically, I don't think we were given a solution and I'm just fine with that.


	25. Chapter 25

_I’m sorry, brother dear, but you made a promise. There’s_ nothing _I can do to help._ – “The Empty Hearse”

Mycroft was concerned about his brother. Reports from Lestrade, Molly, and even Mrs Hudson, when he could tolerate her, left him with a less than desirable level of comfort, especially since Sherlock refused any suggestion of caring for his mental health. Sherlock had been back over a month and it was nearing the anniversary of his jump from Bart’s. John had only gone with Sherlock on his more difficult cases. A majority of the cases Sherlock agreed to these days were ones he could answer over email. This surprised Mycroft. Since Sherlock’s fame, he had not wasted his time on cases that were so easy to solve, until now.

Mycroft made what he considered to be a final effort to contact Sherlock before he took more drastic measures. He knew Sherlock was in the flat and that he had not taken any cases in several days. He decided to pay his brother a visit. As he let himself in the flat, he heard a voice that was not his brother’s, _“…And do try to get on with Missy. He does his best to look out for you. Love, Mummy._ ”

At the name “Missy” Sherlock’s laughter could be heard coming from the kitchen. Mycroft pulled a face and went to look at the computer. An email from their mother to Sherlock was on the screen and the entire thing was highlighted. The line in question read “Mycie”. Sherlock’s laughter was still coming from the kitchen, though he tried to control it enough to speak, “Hello, brother dear. Fancy some tea, _Missy_?”

Sherlock burst into another fit of giggles. Mycroft came to the kitchen and just stared at his brother, “Yes, but I might have more luck than you; stand aside. What is all this about?”

Sherlock had tears coming out of his eyes he was laughing so hard. He took in a gulp of air and waved his hand at the sitting room, although he was indicating his computer. “I wanted to get the tea started, so I was having the ‘Text-To-Speech’ program read mother’s letter to me.”

He nearly had control of himself, but there were a few giggles still breaking through. Mycroft simply rolled his eyes as he prepared the two cups of tea. He was never going to be able to live that one down and it was not anything he had control to fix. “Yes, very amusing, ‘ _Sherly_ ’.”

That got Sherlock’s attention and Mycroft offered a toothy grin. Sherlock was still smiling, but he clearly tried to be more serious now, “And to what do I owe this visit? Did mummy email you as well?”

Mycroft could hear the sarcastic tone in his brother’s voice, he replied calmly even if it had a lilt of teasing to it, “As a matter of fact, she did. Though she didn’t ask about you.”

Sherlock huffed and then took a sip of his tea. His reply was calmer, “She didn’t ask because she ordered you to come. Oh well, one more thing you can add to her file.”

Mycroft shrugged as he moved into the sitting room. He took John’s seat as Sherlock took his own. Mycroft replied less sardonically, “She’s worried. I have yet to decide if I am or not.”

“Well this turned into a sobering conversation rather quickly. You couldn’t let me enjoy myself for even a few minutes first?”

Mycroft just gave a weighted glance at his brother. The little episode with the computer reading the letter made Sherlock laugh much harder than would be appropriate – even for him. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother as he replied somewhat stiffly, “I’m _fine_.”

Both of Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, there was more weight given to those two words than Sherlock would usually offer. Mycroft took in his brother – head to toe – in the manner he would any public dignitary he would have to work with. That’s when he noticed it, the faint tremor in Sherlock’s hand; the way, even though he had just been laughing so hard, that his eyes had lost their brightness; the nervous energy that seemed to thrum through his body.

Sherlock stared back for a few minutes, but there was a challenge in his expression. Mycroft sipped at his tea before speaking, “I have a contact at MI-6. I would like for you to speak with her.”

Sherlock tilted his head and asked “About what?”

His tone did not carry the usual agitation that would normally be present. He did not seem to notice as he took a sip from his own cup.

Mycroft sighed heavily, “About whatever you like. Sit there in silence for an hour.”

“A trick cyclist,” came Sherlock’s huffed in reply, “Thank you, Brother Dear, but no.”

Sherlock was putting off that he was casual as can be, but the tremor worsened slightly for a few moments – that did not go unnoticed by Mycroft. “Sherlock…” Mycroft’s tone had a hint of pleading.

“I told you I’m fine. Yes, I’m still adjusting to being back, but it’s only been a month. What did you expect? That I’d come back and everything would be perfect immediately?”

“No, Sherlock. That’s what _you_ expected.”

“Well, some things don’t change, do they? You’re just like everyone else. Before I left everyone was telling me to do everything to ‘not be myself.’ I come back and that’s all you have to offer me!”

Sherlock’s breathing rate had increased and Mycroft knew he had pushed the wrong button. He calmed his tone, he would not rise to Sherlock’s level of emotion, “Sherlock, coming back from such a long assignment is difficult for anyone. At least go and listen….”

“No!”

This was unusual for Sherlock to let himself get so worked up. “Sherlock, please.”

Mycroft’s tone was soft, imploring. He needed Sherlock to understand he was only trying to help. Sherlock stood suddenly and pointed to the door, “I think you should leave now.”

Mycroft did not know how to respond. He typically left under his own discretion. He tried one last time, “Sherlock…”

“No! Get out! Now!”

Mycroft nodded once and set his cup of tea aside. He stood slowly, “If you change your mind you know how to…”

“I _won’t._ ”

Mycroft sighed heavily and left his brother. He made a brief stop with Mrs Hudson, asking her to look in on Sherlock later and then he left the flat, looking up at the windows to Sherlock’s sitting room as he climbed into the sleek black car that was waiting for him.

* * *

Mycroft debated for several days about what his next step should be. Finally, he thought it best to get another opinion. He knew this conversation would be difficult for both of them, but it had to be done. It would be the first time Mycroft had tried to have any communication with John Watson since the funeral - which had not gone well at all. Since then, per Sherlock's request, Mycroft had kept a weathered eye on John, but nothing more.

Now, the situation with Sherlock had reached a point that Mycroft knew he had to intervene in another way. This meant that contacting John was a necessary action. He debated how best to do it. He knew John disliked it when he simply collected him. Now that John was living with Mary Morstan and working in his clinic, he was less free for such interruptions anyway. Mycroft decided to send a text. He timed it so that John would receive it before leaving for work:   
Dr Watson, I should like to invite you to Diogenes Club to partake in a meal. MH

John’s reply came somewhat slower than expected. Mycroft had already moved into a meeting and could not read it until there was a break:  
If this is about Sherlock, I’ve told you before, I’m not your messenger. JW

Mycroft huffed as he read it, but he wrote his reply:  
I have made the attempt, it was refused. MH

 John’s reply came nearly immediately – he must have been between patients:  
What’s happened? Do I need to goto Baker Street now?

Nothing has happened yet. I should like to discuss the matter in person. Name a date and time, I will arrange it in my schedule. MH

At that point, Mycroft had to return to the meeting, but he felt his phone buzz with John’s reply.

When Mycroft successfully averted a potentially ghastly conflict with Estonia, he returned to his office, and checked his messages. John’s reply read:  
18.30. Pickup at clinic. Should I bring Mary?

Mycroft thought about involving Mary. Her nursing experience with psychiatry at Maudsley Hospital would be helpful. In the end, Mycroft decided it would reveal too much – for everyone. It would be best if she were brought in by John and only as an alternative to hospitalising Sherlock. Mycroft had Anthea arrange for dinner at the club. Then he texted back:  
Car will meet you at the clinic at 18:30 sharp. Mary need not come. MH

Mycroft released a tension he had not realised he had been holding. At least John was willing to come. He was not sure what John’s reaction would be to him. He contacted Anthea again and informed her to arrange for casual security. He did not think that John would be overly violent, but John could be unpredictable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this chapter is brought to you from a real experience of using “Text-to-speech” on my Mac. It ALWAYS reads “Mycie” as “Missy” and makes me giggle every time. I thought, what the hell, make it a part of the story XD Besides I feel bad that Sherlock doesn’t have much ammunition against his older brother, this gives him something.


	26. Chapter 26

_I never intend — I never dreamt ...._ – “The Reichenbach Fall”

At Six-fifty-one o’clock, John entered the dining area of the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was sat at one of the four tables in the room. One of the remaining three was clearly set up for dinner service for two. When John entered, Mycroft stood, took off his suit jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, and gestured to the set table as he spoke, “John, please have a seat.” To the butler he nodded, “Thank you. Please begin service in fifteen minutes.”

With that, Mycroft moved to the other table and sat down. John was clearly nervous, “What’s this about, then?”

“Please, sit. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

“I’d rather you just tell me.”

Mycroft gave him a look. It was not one of his sternest, but finally John sat. Mycroft paused to collected his thoughts, “I am aware that you and my brother are not working as many cases together as you used to. You may have thought it is because of his concerns about the media, or that he understands your need for additional income to support you and Mary.”

He paused for breath and to organise his next words, “However, I have been watching him more closely than usual as he adjusts to life back in London. So, I happen to know that he is not taking as many cases in general.”

Mycroft tilted his head with an expression that said, “ _Anything you want to share?_ ”

Several times as Mycroft spoke, he could tell that John wanted to interrupt. He was grateful when John did not, but he could still read the questions as they passed through his facial features. Finally, the realisation donned on John. His reply was soft, but held a tone of more concern than anger, “I’ve said this before: if you’re so concerned about him, why don’t you talk to _him_?”

“And as I said in my text, ‘I tried.’ I believe my brother is having trouble adjusting to being back. I had suggested that he speak with someone at MI-6. He… _requested_ … that I leave.”

At that, John chuckled drily. “You suggested that your brother see a therapist? Have you _met_ him?”

Mycroft tolerated John’s response, “I contacted you, because you also had trouble adjusting when you returned from war….”

“But that was different!” John interrupted. He swallowed and regained control as the wait staff served dinner. Once they had left, John did not start eating, but asked his burning question first, “What _was_ he doing when he was playing ‘hide-and-seek’?”

Mycroft had taken a bite of his lasagne before John had asked his question. Mycroft nearly choked on it. He should have anticipated it, but he had honestly thought that his brother had confided in his best friend. He regained his control and took a sip of wine before he tried to speak, “I believe he told you. Moriarty had a vast network, John. He couldn't just stop the spider, the entire web had to be torn down."

John had started to cut into his own meal, but Mycroft had finished speaking before he could get a morsel to his lips. Well, not letting John eat was another thing the brothers had in common, then. He rolled his eyes. “I know that bit. I mean specifics, Mycroft. I removed stitches from his back, but he wouldn’t tell me more than I hadn’t caused them and he had received them before he was back in London.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he considered John’s request. John quickly shoved a couple of bites into his mouth, as he knew Mycroft was getting serious. Mycroft allowed the other man to chew properly while he considered what to tell him. Finally, he slowly set his utensils down. He did not want the distraction in his hands while he shared this information. “I can't tell what I don’t know.” Mycroft held up a hand to stop an interruption. “John, whatever you believe about his time away, I doubt it is accurate. He wasn’t ‘under cover.’ In fact, I had to call-in several long-standing debts of my own over the past two years, because even MI-6 couldn’t be involved. There are a few... cases, for lack of a better word… of which I know some details. By and large, he hasn't told me much. I was more of a resource for him when he changed identities or needed information. I wasn’t someone he confided in. Having been in my line of work as long as I have, and knowing my brother, I can make assumptions, but that's all they would be."

Mycroft hoped his honesty would show John just how worried he was for Sherlock. John nodded and swallowed some water as Mycroft spoke, “You’re more worried than you’ve been letting on. So what _can_ you tell me?”

“I believe my brother is in a similar situation to what you experienced when you returned.”

John scowled at that, “How can anything….” John huffed, “Just tell me plainly.”

Mycroft made eye contact with John and held it for a moment before he replied, "If you removed the stitches, then you already know that he was beaten. I can tell you, the beating that made those stitches necessary happened in Serbia – his last mission before he returned. I suspect that wasn't the first time and that other times probably involved torture."

Mycroft hoped that John, as an army doctor, could appreciate the difference between those two circumstances. He continued, "I also presume that he had to become that which everyone accused him of being: psychopathic, uncaring, unfeeling, machine... the term you give it doesn't matter. I suspect that the only thing that held him together was the knowledge that he was protecting those here in London: you, Detective Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, foremost.

"I know he killed and not always in a gentle or merciful manner. I know of one case that was particularly... bloody." 

Mycroft shuddered a bit at that – not that Mycroft was bothered by the idea in general, but that his brother specifically was capable of such an act. Then his voice grew exceptionally quite, almost too quiet for the size of room they were in. "And... I know he hears your voice in his head and talks to that voice." 

Mycroft looked at John with an expression that said, “ _You_ know _what this means_.” Mycroft hoped that John would understand he was trying to say “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder” without actually using that term.

John was focusing on a completely different matter. He grew angry as Mycroft spoke. He did what he could to keep his breathing under control. “So. You call me here, to tell me your brother was _tortured_ while he was away. And not only that but that he tortured and killed _others_. And you didn’t think to tell me any of this until _now_?! It’s been six _weeks_ , for God’s sake!”

John realised how loud his voice was getting so he cut himself off from saying more – for the moment.

Mycroft offered one nod; he had expected the anger. “Sherlock had an evaluation when we were on the plane returning from Serbia. He thought it was part of the debriefing. He was cleared to work the 'Underground Network' case. At that point, I was alerted to the possibility of PTSD. I didn't do anything, because no one was certain yet, and frankly I thought the case and him jumping back into normal life would be good for him.” After all, it had worked for John.

“It wasn’t until recently that all the little tells started to fall into place. That’s why I tried to talk to him _first_. At this point, I honestly don't know if he'll allow even you to help him. We've all changed and moved on in our own little ways. My brother was never exceptional with interpersonal relationships. And now, I fear, he might be out of his depth. At once he is trying to return to everything he had before he left, yet finding that everything is different.”

John was seething now. In an attempt to calm himself, he started to shove some more food into his mouth, chew and swallow quickly. Mycroft watched him in silence and then asked John a question, which he knew would confirm or deny any suspicions both of them held, “Has he taken any of Lestrade's cases since he solved the underground bombing?”

John looked up at that and then he sat back – the realisation hitting him full force. He sat in stunned silence, “No… A few from the website, but nothing really taxing or that could lead to dangerous situations.” John gasped, as saying it out loud somehow made it more real, “Oh, God.”

Mycroft again nodded. He moved his half-eaten plate aside, rested his elbows on the table, folded his hands together, and placed his chin atop the point. “Indeed. I think now you understand the predicament into which I have found myself.”

“Do you think he will return to drugs?”

Mycroft shook his head, “Nothing has indicated that he has yet. Though, with my brother it is always a possibility.”

Now it was John’s turn to nod in thought. The two men sat there in silence for some time. John had lost his appetite and set is plate aside as well. Finally he spoke, “I’m not sure what I can do. But, I’ll talk to him. Maybe he’ll take the advice from someone who’s been through something similar.”

Mycroft offered a weak sort of smile, “I would be most grateful for any assistance you can offer.”

John huffed his response, “I came here, expecting to be angry with you. Expecting you to be your usual government self – trying to control your brother…” he tapered off.

Mycroft nodded. “It would seem we all have changed in the past two years.”

John sighed. “I don’t suppose I can tell Mary any of this…”

Mycroft gave a small shrug. “If you think she could help, though I believe Sherlock would appreciate it if you could perhaps leave out specifics.”

John nodded. “I was due to meet him tomorrow, but you probably already knew that. Mary spent time training in mental health. Maybe she can see something the two of us are missing. She might have an idea of how to approach him…. You already knew that as well.”

Mycroft nodded. With that, John stood and gave one curt nod to Mycroft. “I’ll call you if we decide your resources are needed. And either way, I’ll text to let you know how it goes.”

Again Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, John. You are a good friend to him.”

John chuckled softly, “Well, he is too, when he wants to be.”

John left the Club and had the driver take him to his house.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think John had a complete breakdown at some point during the hiatus (I set it as the one-year anniversary of Sherlock's "Death." I also wanted to give Mary a little bit of a back-story to explain how she understands so much about Sherlock's behaviours. Basically: it's all headcanon and I expect it to be AU in the future.
> 
> * * *

_I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you._ – “The Empty Hearse”

Mary was reading a book while curled up on the sofa and she looked up at John when he entered their house. John smiled at her, but she could tell instantly that something was wrong. It was the way he seemed to pace as he removed his jacket and hung it on the peg. The expression he wore – it was one he seemed to only have when he was thinking about…

“Did something happen to Sherlock?”

Mary bit her lip after speaking. She needed to keep her secret, so to cover up her error, she continued, “Is that why you suddenly couldn’t come straight home?”

She leaned forward, setting her book on the coffee table. It was an unspoken invitation for John to tell her what was going on.

John pulled a face when he looked at her. Now, that one she knew. It was a “ _How did you…_ ” But he just shrugged and sat down next to her. He had called to tell her he would not be in for tea, so it would be enough of a cover for her purposes. He sighed heavily and looked at her, “I met with his brother. He’s concerned about him.”

When John did not continue, Mary took one of his hands in hers, “Anything I can do to help?”

John offered a weak smile, “I don’t know. Maybe. What kinds of cases did you deal with when you worked at Bethlem?”

At that question, Mary grew concerned. “You know I was there from shortly after earning my qualifications until I came to work for the clinic.”

Mary had been there for nearly two and a half years. She had faced everything under the sun – from the acute A&E cases to chronic psychosis. She was good at her job and felt it grounding to her. Seeing what the truly mentally ill looked liked reminded her that she was not as crazy as she sometimes felt. It also provided a good cover for her since it was the last place anyone would look for a former assassin – at least not as an employee.

John had been at Bethlem for an intensive three-week stay at the request of his therapist, Ella Thompson. It had been around the time of the first anniversary of Sherlock’s ‘death.’ John was suicidal and Ella had felt more intense therapy would help him through that difficult time. Mary had not been assigned to John, something she was grateful for now – she would have never considered dating him if that had been the case. But, they smiled at each other in the hall or would have short conversations about random things not related to much of anything. John’s smile always made Mary smile.

Mary had eventually left because a patient she had grown close to had committed suicide soon after he had been released and declared ‘healthy.’ She decided she needed a change, at least for a while. Since she had been reliable and given the cases others usually would not take, everyone understood when she decided to step away. She had enough funds to cover her expenses for a while, so she looked specifically for a part-time general clinic position. When she had applied, she had no idea it was with the same clinic John was working.

The first couple of weeks were awkward, mostly because she could tell John did not know how he felt about her working there. She finally found a moment to talk with him alone and explained how glad she was that he was doing so well. From there, both knew that how they first met did not matter. She had not planned to fall in love with the good doctor. They first became good friends. The falling-in-love happened slowly and naturally. When they finally started dating, it was like everything in her life was finally in place and she felt she could actually live again. John would talk about the ways she saved him, but he saved her just as much.

John nodded slowly at her reply. Mary could tell he was debating what to say to her. When he finally spoke, the words came out slowly. “Mycroft thinks Sherlock might be suffering from PTSD.”

Mary’s concern grew and she frowned deeply. She had dealt with concerned family members before, so she knew the questions that she needed to ask. “John, I’m going to have to ask some questions.”

John nodded, but spoke before she could voice them, “Right now, he’s not a danger to himself or others, but we’d like to prevent it from getting to that point.”

Mary nodded, feeling slightly assured. “I didn’t think he was, or you would be talking to him instead of to me. What reasons did his brother give for thinking Sherlock might have PTSD?”

John sighed. “I would feel better if Sherlock told you – or hell, told _me_. But Mycroft told me about a few things that happened while he was… away.”

Knowing even the little bit that John now knew he did not feel right using teasing words to talk about what Sherlock had done during those two years. Mary nodded. “Okay. Can you give me a general idea of what kinds of things?" 

John looked agitated. He did not want to tell her details, but he understood why she needed to know. “He was fighting a one-man war against Moriarty’s Network.”

Mary nodded encouragingly. She was fairly certain what that meant, but she needed to ask anyway, “And when you say ‘war,’ you mean it literally. So he killed people?”

John looked like he was about to break down. He nodded, “And was captured and tortured sometimes.”

With that, John did start to cry a little. Mary pulled him into a hug. She did not need any more details. Her own background provided her with enough experience to imagine everything else. She decided she would have to do her own evaluation of Sherlock. At least she needed an idea if between the three of them they could treat Sherlock or if he would need something more intensive.

She let John cry for a bit and just held him. She had learned that John never felt like he could properly express his emotions, but just holding or somehow touching him did wonders. She held him until he pulled away. He looked at her. His voice was still choked, “You’ll help him?”

Mary nodded. “I’ll do what I can. But John, we need to think about the possibility of hospitalising him. He might not need it, but we need to be prepared.”

John nodded in return. “Do you think he’ll talk to us?”

“I don’t know, love, all we can do is try.” 

Just then, John received a text from Mycroft, which gave him an idea. He would have to talk about it with Sherlock first, but he thought it would be good for all of them.

* * *

The next day, John and Mary drove to Baker Street. John had tossed and turned most of the night, which led Mary to not sleeping much herself. She hoped Sherlock would not mind that she came along. Well, even if he did, she would have to convince him that she had no plans to come between them. “John… Maybe you should go up first. I’ll either wait in the car or visit with Mrs Hudson.”

John turned to face her, “Are you sure? Only I thought you wanted to talk to him yourself.”

Mary nodded and waited to speak as she made a right-hand turn. “I do, but I don’t want to make him too uncomfortable too quickly. Besides, he might have a case you can help with.”

John huffed, “I doubt it. That’s what made Mycroft think something was wrong.”

Mary reached over with her hand to pat John’s, “We’ll help him through this, John. That I can promise.”

There were not a lot of things Mary could promise when it came to mental health, but being there to help someone? That she could. She parked the car, the pair got out, and started to walk down the street to 221. John used his key to let them in. Mary encouraged him upstairs and she went to see Mrs Hudson.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh! For some glitchy reason this chapter never posted originally. Apologies!

_You know when you’re scared of something; you start wishing it sooner just to get it all going?_ – “Sign of Three”

Sherlock was working on an experiment in the kitchen and he heard John coming up the stairs. He had heard Mary enter as well, but she must have stopped by to see Mrs Hudson. That meant John’s visit was more than just social. He had brought ‘backup,’ but did not want to make it seem like he brought backup. There was Mycroft’s visit the other day – was it yesterday? Sherlock spoke out, “You’ve been to see my brother.”

John entered the kitchen through the door off the landing. He looked over his friend, reading what he could about Sherlock’s physical state. It had improved drastically over the past few weeks, which left his mental state in question. “If by that you mean that he insisted that I talk to him, then yes.” He paused. “Busy?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m always busy.”

Sherlock pulled away from the microscope and gestured for John to take a seat at the table. John did, not sure how to broach this subject. Sometimes the direct route worked best with his friend, but other times that made it too difficult. “Is it for a case?”

“Everything I do is for the Work, John, surely you haven’t forgotten that.”

“Well, yes. But is it for a _current_ case?”

For a brief moment, some emotion flashed across Sherlock’s features. Sherlock had felt it and made quick work to school it into something blank. “What does that matter?”

“I was just curious. You hadn’t called asking for my help or advice…”

Sherlock broke in, “I thought you’d be busy with your own work. Or with Mary.”

John shrugged, “Well, you know you can always ask…. You know… if you wanted to…”

Sherlock gave a single, sharp nod. He took a slight breath before he spoke, “But that’s not why you’re here. Something that my brother said convinced you something is wrong with me.”

“I wouldn’t say, ‘wrong.’ But he did text me to tell me the tombstone at your grave is going to be removed on Monday. He wanted to know if I wanted to be there. And I thought…”

“Thought what? That I might want to go?” Sherlock’s tone had a sharp edge to it. He stood up and moved to the sitting room where he paced liked a caged animal. “Why would I want that?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe to gain a sense of closure of everything that happened? Might be good for me.”

Sherlock paused in his pacing and stared at John. “Why?”

“Because having it removed is the final proof that you really are back.”

“You need proof that I’m…”

“Sherlock, just listen for a moment. I went to your grave more times than I care to admit. Hell, I even took Mary there to introduce her to you – as much as I could at the time. Having it removed will just be the last step for me to move away from that time.”

“And you think that will help me too? John, I don’t think you understand.”

John chuckled drily. Sherlock pulled a face as he heard it. His tone was defensive, “What?”

John sighed heavily. “Sherlock, I think you know I understand and I think you understand more than you’re letting on.”

For the briefest moments, Sherlock considered storming to his room and slamming the door. But he did not want John to leave. He had missed his friend, but did not know how to tell him that. More than anything, he did not want to admit that Mycroft was right: he just wanted everything back the way it was. He finally flung himself onto the couch with his back to the main part of the room. 

John stood slowly and made his way to the sitting room. He cleared a space on the coffee table and sat on it so he was facing Sherlock’s back. He moved the table slightly, so that if Sherlock turned around, he would not be invading the man’s space too much.

Sherlock did not know how to react to any of this. His brother thought he needed a trick cyclist and obviously had asked John’s opinion. John must think there is something concerning, or he would not have brought Mary with him. Sherlock had thought he was managing quite well. At least he was as long as he could stay awake. If he could just get his Mind Palace to obey him and delete what he did not want to remember, everything would be much easier.

John’s tone was gentle and he spoke softly, “Sherlock, I know you and your brother think that Ella is not a good therapist for me. But after you… left… I went back to her. And I realised that it wasn’t that she was bad at her job, it was that I wasn’t letting her do her job. I wasn’t willing to be honest with myself, so I wasn’t being honest with her. I thought of it as one more hoop I had to jump through that would only take me farther away from being a soldier.”

Sherlock offered a long-suffering sigh, “If there is a point to all this drivel, I suggest you make it.”

John’s tone changed at that. Not that he was angry, but there was a sharp edge to it, “See that, right there? You don’t want to hear me out. You’re afraid I might be right. But instead of facing that, you attack me. And just because I know it’s a defence mechanism doesn’t mean I have to excuse your behaviour.” John paused a moment before continuing. “When I came back from the war, Ella told me to keep a blog. She told me that writing about everything that happened to me would help. I told her, ‘Nothing happens to me.’ And then I met you. Things started to happen to me.”

He paused to see if Sherlock would react. Sherlock went still. Clearly John had his attention. When Sherlock remained silent, John continued, “But what I never had – didn’t know I needed until you left – was closure. I had no say in leaving the army. One bullet wound took me out. I wasn’t even conscious enough to know what happened to my team. And as soon as I was stable, I was brought back here. But you… You completed your mission. Being there when they remove the headstone is just another way to celebrate that.”

Sherlock still did not turn around, but he did speak, “Sentiment.”

“No different than having champagne to celebrate that you returned and that Mary and I were engaged. No different than giving the press the story after you’ve solved a case.”

Sherlock finally turned over to face John. “That’s to make everyone go away and leave me alone,” he replied grumpily.

John chuckled softly at that. “We didn’t have to do it here. That was your idea.”

Sherlock pouted. John was right about that. Finally he rolled his eyes, “How many people?”

John shook his head, trying to follow where Sherlock’s question came from, “Sorry?”

“When they remove the headstone. How many people are you going to invite?”

John shrugged as he answered. “That’s really up to you. I want to be there, but if you rather I didn’t…”

Sherlock grabbed one of John’s hands in his own before either man knew what had happened. Sherlock met John’s eyes, “Don’t ever think that.”

Sherlock was not a good man; he knew that. John made him a better man. If there was one piece of information he wanted to retain from his time away, it was that John had saved his life in every way.

Sherlock slowly sat up, “I want it to be small: you, Mary – if you want her there, Mrs Hudson. Mycroft will probably insist on his presence and my parents are in L.A., so no sense in worrying them.”

Sherlock did not sound like he would mind his family being there for this. John gave his friend’s hand a squeeze. “Sherlock, this is about you. If you don’t want Mary…”

Sherlock shook his head, “I like her. She can come if she wants.”

John quirked his lips, slightly amused. Sherlock furrowed his brows at the reaction, “What?”

John smiled, “She said the same thing about you the night you returned." 

Sherlock suddenly realised he was still holding John’s hand and he released it. “Well, good. I doubt you’d like us fighting over you.”

John folded his now free hands back into his lap. He smirked. “Oh, I don’t know, then I could be the centre of attention for once.”

Sherlock offered a small smile in return. He sat up slowly to face John properly. “That’s not why you met with my brother.”

John sighed, “You’ve already figured it out.”

Sherlock shrugged. John met his eyes, “Look, Sherlock, I’m not a therapist, but I am a doctor. I can tell you’re not sleeping or eating right.”

Sherlock made to protest, but John held up his hand, “This is more than your usual. Look, do me a favour and just talk to Mary for a few minutes.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why her?”

“Because she has experience with these things. She’s not a therapist, but she hasn’t known you as long and can offer a less biased opinion.”

“What kind of opinion?”

“How much support you might need right now.”

Sherlock’s eyes went large, “He wants to section me.”

It was a statement, clearly about Mycroft. John shook his head once. “He wants to make sure you’re safe. That you’re not causing permanent damage to yourself.” He paused, when Sherlock did not react, continued, “I just want to help you, if you need it. I know you can usually work through things in that big brain of yours, but coming back from fighting a war is hard. There’s no shame in getting a little extra help.”

Sherlock was quiet for some time. “If I agree to talk to Mary, when?”

“It doesn’t have to be today. She came along more to support me today.”

Sherlock nodded once, then stood without saying a word, he walked into the kitchen and filled the water kettle then turned it on to boil. He came to stand in the partition between the two rooms. “Just Mary.”

The pause gave John enough time to get into ‘Doctor Mode’. He stood then, “Just Mary. I’m sure she’ll respect your privacy.”

Sherlock nodded once, “Can you… Make the arrangements for Monday? After it’s done, she and I can take a walk." 

John offered a half-smile. “I think I can make all of that work.”


	29. Chapter 29

_Oh, he would have needed a confidant…_ – “The Empty Hearse”

John had made the arrangements with Mycroft for the headstone removal. In the end, it was John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock. Mycroft arranged a car for them, but he would not be attending personally. John was somewhat relieved by that. If Sherlock were to talk with Mary after the headstone was removed, it would be best if Sherlock were as calm as possible. Mycroft was anything but a calming influence on his brother these days. 

The foursome met at Baker Street and then they were driven to the cemetery. The day was mostly sunny and not overly cold given that it was mid-December. No one spoke about the fact that the second anniversary of Sherlock’s jump was the next day. Conversation during the ride was subdued but not overly grim. Mrs Hudson chattered on about the ride she and John had shared that first time they had come together. She sounded almost cheerful, which seemed to set Sherlock and John on edge. That left Mary to try to move the conversation in other directions.

Finally they reached the cemetery and everyone got out and started to move towards the tombstone. Sherlock and John walked near each other. When they nearly reached the site, Sherlock pointed to a nearby tree. “I was standing over there.” 

John paused for a minute. “God, you were so close.”

Sherlock nodded. “I nearly lost my resolve and showed myself to you. You turned to leave before I could and I took that moment to do the same.”

John nodded solemnly once. John had no idea how to respond to Sherlock admitting to some kind of affection towards him. John thought he was incapable of such things. It was best to simply accept it and move on.

Even if none of them knew the way to the marker, it would have been obvious, since there was a forklift parked nearby. They had all gathered and then they looked at each other. Softly Mrs Hudson started to chuckle. It was infectious, soon all of them were giggling. It was Mary who spoke first, “Is there anything traditional that we should say for something like this?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Traditions – a bit overrated.”

John just shook his head. But Mrs Hudson spoke, “Well, I’ve got something to say.”

Everyone turned to look at her. Mary and Sherlock raised their eyebrows. John lowered his hairline. She continued, “Don’t look at me like that! I know we don’t want this to be too serious, but I just have to say how glad I am that Sherlock is back.” Then she turned to face the man she had just named. She gave him a very stern look indeed, “And I don’t ever want to have to visit that thing again in my life-time. Do you understand, mister?”

Sherlock was caught off-guard a bit. He knew that she had missed him, but this… was unexpected. She then approached him and wrapped her arms around him. 

John and Mary looked at each other and smiled warmly. John spoke softly. “And that goes double for me.”

Sherlock hugged Mrs Hudson briefly and addressed all of them when he spoke, “I’ll do my best. But I’ll never be sorry for ensuring your safety.”

Mary’s ears perked up at that. She added that piece of information to all that John had told her. In the meantime, John had signalled to the forklift driver to move the headstone. They all watched as it was lifted and driven away.

“Bit anti-climatic.” Mary spoke softly. Then a thought came to her, “Sherlock? Who’s buried here if it wasn’t you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “As far as I know the coffin was empty and it was pulled back up after everyone had left. But Mycroft was the one who took care of such details, so it wouldn’t surprise me if an enemy of the state was buried there instead.”

The other three shifted uncomfortably at Sherlock’s reply. Mrs Hudson looked around the small gathered group. “Well, dears, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could go for a spot of tea.”

John took the lead. “I could use some as well. Tell you what, my treat.”

Mary and Sherlock looked at each other, a short unspoken conversation passing between them. Sherlock spoke, “I’ll meet you back at Baker Street.”

As predicted Mrs Hudson made to protest and Mary stopped her. “I’ll stay with him. We’ll be fine.”

With that reassurance, Mrs Hudson and John went back to the car, leaving Sherlock and Mary behind.

Sherlock offered Mary his arm as he spoke, “Shall we?”

Mary offered a small smile and took it. “You know what I used to do. But I have no agenda. And nothing you decide to share with me will be shared with others unless you tell me I can.”

Sherlock scoffed at that. Mary furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”

Sherlock gave a half-shrug and started to walk. Mary moved with him. After a few steps he spoke, “You won’t tell anyone unless you decide I’m a danger to myself or others.”

Mary nodded. “I’ll be direct, then. Are you a danger to yourself or others?”

“I’ve always been a danger to others. It’s why I had to leave to begin with. I’m not entirely sure what level of danger I pose now that I’ve dismantled Moriarty’s Network.”

Mary gave his arm a squeeze and she released a tension she did not know she had been holding. Sherlock was well-grounded in reality. “How are you sleeping?”

Sherlock huffed a breath. Mary nodded in reply. “Okay, you’re not. Is it the normal ‘not sleeping’ or is it because of everything you experienced when you were away?”

Sherlock got himself out of her grasp and moved to sit on a bench. Mary followed, but did not sit until Sherlock made a gesture for her to join him. He was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke his voice was soft. “How much do you know?”

Mary looked out over the cemetery. “John said you had been fighting a one-man war. And suggested that you’ve done everything someone in any kind of war would do.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but did not look at Mary. “That’s it?”

Mary shrugged. “He knows you’re a private man. He wanted to respect that. I’ll listen to anything you want to tell me.”

A faint shadow of a smile passed Sherlock’s lips. “I used to see myself as above it all. Setting aside any care or concern I might personally hold for others until they were out of danger. I always understood that caring about people wouldn’t help save them, so I had to detach myself until the case was over.”

Mary nodded. “John mentioned your post-case crashes. Not in relation to this, just other times when he would talk about you.”

“My way of dealing with the parts of the case where I failed. Seeing if I could learn from my mistakes to not fail again.”

“And what have you learned so far?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Haven’t been able to assess it properly yet.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock went still and quiet. He had no idea how to respond to that question. “I think because part of me isn’t convinced that it’s over. There will always be some danger out there. Some point where people will need protecting. But right now, it doesn’t feel over….”

Mary nodded. She understood too well. “Being undercover or in hiding can do that.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s more than that. Coping mechanisms that I instilled while I was away are still being used. I don’t like it. It makes me feel like I don’t have control.”

“What kind of coping mechanisms?”

“I talked to John…. Eventually I heard his voice talking back.” Sherlock’s voice had gone very quiet. Mary had to strain to hear him. He paused for a moment. “Do you think it’s crazy? Do you think I am?”

“Sherlock, I’m not a therapist. I’m happy to listen to anything you have to say…”

Sherlock cut her off with a grumble. Mary continued to speak, “If you have enough self-awareness to ask that question, I would say no. You’ve been through a pretty traumatic time. And as far as I’ve been able to pick up, you were pretty much on your own. We all find ways to cope with different situations.”

“I don’t want you to think differently of me….”

Mary smiled. She reached out and took his hand. She was pleased when he let her. She spoke warmly, “Sherlock, I don’t know if John told you… But the first night we met, I told John that I liked you. I’ve finally read some of John’s blog, but I trust my gut instincts when it comes to my first impressions.”

Mary went quiet and she let Sherlock think. He finally spoke quietly, “’War’ is a very apt description. If I ever told the stories to John he would probably romanticise them, making me out to be some James Bond. But the truth is: it was a lot of luck. I made a lot of stupid mistakes. Even paid for some of them.”

Mary nodded again. “I know you were beat in Serbia. If I had to guess, I would say you’ve probably experienced torture as well.”

Sherlock’s hands started to shake slightly and to hide it he folded his hands together. Mary noticed. “Sherlock, if any of this feels like it might trigger a panic attack, I need you to tell me right away.”

Sherlock nodded, but still squeezed his hands together tightly. Mary let him sit there quietly and she timed how long it took him to get himself together. Finally he took a deep breath. He looked over at her. His voice was soft, “This is why I can’t take cases. If that were to happen when…” He broke off again.

Mary reached out her hand this time and took Sherlock’s again. She remained quiet. Sherlock took hers but did not squeeze it. He spoke again, his voice slightly louder. “I’ve never liked sleeping, it seems like such a waste of time. But now…”

Mary wanted to help her friend, but she knew from her training it was better to let him tell her his thoughts. When he did not continue, she prompted. “Now?”

He shrugged.  “I sometimes see flashes of my experiences when I’m awake. I know it will only be worse if I sleep.”

He stopped again and looked at her before he finished. “Are you sure I’m not crazy?”

Mary squeezed his hand and chuckled softly. “John might be the better person to answer that question.”

“Why?”

Mary shrugged. “Because he’s lived with you. He knows and understands what your base-line would be.”

“Do you think I should take Mycroft up on his offer?”

“You mean do I think Mycroft would request your records?” She smiled softly. “I think we might be able to find a way around that.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Mary nodded. “Mycroft isn’t the only one with connections. But, Sherlock? If I can do this for you, do me a favour and take it seriously.”

Sherlock squeezed her hand, it was the best response she could hope for in the given situation. He stood suddenly, “Right. Back to Baker Street, then? I know Mrs Hudson was doing some baking this morning and I don’t think they would start without us.”

Mary grinned and pulled out her phone. “That sounds good to me, let me just text John and let him know we’re on the way.”

The taxi ride was somewhat subdued. When they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock paused as he unlocked the door. “Thank you, Mary.”

He did not say more and opened the door for her. She just smiled in response and entered the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness. Some of you may think it was because of my _Doctor Who_ focus recently. It actually wasn't. I thought that I had posted this one already :(


	30. Chapter 30

_Having Christmas Drinkies?_ – “A Scandal in Belgravia”

Sherlock had felt better after talking to Mary, though due to holidays, Mary’s contact was unavailable until after the New Year. Since he still did not feel comfortable taking many cases, Sherlock decided to host Christmas again. More accurately, Mrs Hudson hosted – Sherlock’s flat was just the space that was used. Still, she had tasked him with sending the invites. Molly had already arranged to spend Christmas with Tom and his family. But, Sherlock invited Lestrade, John, and Mary.

After Mary got off the phone with Sherlock, she rang Mrs Hudson to make a few more plans. The two women decided to make a true feast of things. Mrs Hudson planned to prepare the turkey – with stuffing, potatoes, and gravy while Mary would prepare the cranberry sauce, Brussel sprouts, bread, and Christmas Pudding. Mary had also planned to come over early to help Sherlock clean and set the table. John would come later, since Lestrade would be able to give him a ride.

When the day finally arrived, Mary first went to Mrs Hudson’s flat to drop off her contributions after exchanging pleasantries and instructions, Mary made her way upstairs, carrying a small platter of nibbles. Sherlock was sat upon his leather chair in his ‘thinking pose’. Mary knocked on the door as she entered the flat. More to let him know there was another presence in the area than because she was expecting any response.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock looked up and spoke, “I cleared off the tables.”

Mary grinned. “I can see that.”

She moved into the kitchen and was surprised to see that the counter spaces were also cleared. Good, with a little rearranging, they could all sit down together. “Sherlock, you’ve really out-done yourself. Let’s get everything set up.”

Sherlock did not protest. Mary had expected a fight on her hands. As they were moving the kitchen table to set it next to the sitting room table, Mary remarked, “Are you feeling okay? I mean, reading John’s Blog, this just doesn’t seem like you.”

He shrugged. “I think I need this. So, I may as well contribute my part to it.”

Mary smiled. “…And…?”

He sighed. “And since there aren’t that many interesting cases on, I had the time and energy.”

Mary patted him on the shoulder. “I wasn’t passing judgement, but I’m glad you’re able to be honest about it.”

Sherlock’s nod was his only reply.

The pair worked quickly to lie out a couple of tablecloths and set the table. Mary was surprised that She did not have to give him much instruction. “You’ve done this before.”

“Mother liked to make a big deal out of festivities, when we would let her. And when I was younger I enjoyed helping. If I got into a rhythm, it was quite a soothing activity.”

Mary grinned. “I feel that way about baking bread.”

Sherlock’s eyes met hers as he replied, “I know.”

“’Course you do.”

It did not take long before they had everything ready. Mary and Sherlock made their way downstairs to help Mrs Hudson bring everything to his flat, so they could have all the food ready. John and Greg would be arriving soon.

Dinner was a pleasant affair. Mary watched Sherlock closely, she wanted to make sure that he was holding up since he would not be meeting with the therapist for a couple of weeks yet. She was glad that he was able to laugh a bit at some of the jokes. The laugh was not forced which made her relax quite a bit herself.

When dinner was complete, Mary and Mrs Hudson cleared the dishes, John and Greg moved the furniture back to the proper places, and Sherlock tuned and played his violin. Once the furniture was moved back, John and Greg did the washing up while Mary and Mrs Hudson returned to the sitting room to give Sherlock an audience.

Sherlock played through an assortment of songs, some light and fun, others more traditional. It was not until John and Greg joined them that he decided he would play something special. He went over and pulled out his MP3 stereo and set it up to play. His voice was soft as he spoke, “I never really liked this song until I heard this version of it when I was in America… the first time. Last year, I learned to play it.”

He pulled a small face and hoped he did not have to explain this was one of the things that happened when he was away. He pushed ‘play’ and as the music started to play, the introduction gave him enough time to prepare. There were soft gasp as Mrs Hudson recognised the song, “O Holy Night.” As the song continued, it was clear that Sherlock was taking creative liberties on his violin when the oboe took up the melody. 

Mary and John had snuggled close together as they watched their friend get caught up in the music. Greg too, was impressed, he had never seen Sherlock express quite so much emotion as he was during this one song. When the song finished, Sherlock noticed that everyone had a few tears in their eyes, but they were also smiling. He assumed it was a good thing and he used the moment of setting the instrument down to wipe the bit of moisture away from his own eyes. He then cleared his throat before he started to speak, “Well… Erm… I guess you could say I’m glad that I was able to share that with you.”

Before any of them quite knew what was happening, the four people who had been seated got up and all enveloped Sherlock in a hug simultaneously. It was a little awkward and Sherlock was a little unsure of what he was supposed to do, but there was not a lot he could do, being surrounded the way he was.

He would never admit to it – at least not right now, but _this_ was the kind of welcome he had expected when he had returned. So it was a few weeks late. That was okay. He could live with it. After a few minutes, he started to squirm a bit and they slowly let him go. Mrs Hudson regained her voice first, “I’m so glad to have you back, Sherlock. Every time I think I’m forgetting to enjoy you, you do something like this.”

Then she was crying softly again. Right, that was enough of that. Sherlock picked up his violin again, selected another track on his MP3 player and started to play “Dance of the Sugar Plum Faery” from _The Nutcracker_. He had discovered that sometimes it’s more fun to play with the support of other instruments. He supposed after spending so much time on his own, he was glad of feeling a part of something.

After several more hours of enjoying each other’s company, Lestrade decided it was time to head home. Mrs Hudson went down to her flat to pack some food for him to take, so they said their goodnights. That left John and Mary. Sherlock looked between them and finally Mary spoke up, “John, why don’t you stay here tonight? I can come back tomorrow and get you. With Boxing Day, it’s not like there’s a lot to do, except maybe shopping…”

John shook his head, but it was Sherlock who replied, “It’s Christmas.”

Mary grinned. “I know. I think it would be good for both of you to do… whatever it is you do at Christmas." 

Sherlock detected a slight waver of concern to Mary’s tone. He realised she must be thinking of the Christmas when he thought The Woman had died. He would let her think that. He was not about to start arguing against spending time with John. He acted casual, though, “Tomorrow’s Boxing Day, Mary could come back to pick you up and it’s not like you don’t have clothes or a place to sleep here." 

John looked torn but Mary grinned bigger and kissed him on the cheek. “That settles it, then. Besides, I know how much you hate shopping.”

John rolled his eyes as he looked between his fiancée and his best friend. “Okay, I guess I’m staying. You’re not planning to spring any need for my medical expertise this time, are you?”

Sherlock grinned. “Not unless a case comes up.”

Mary winked at both of them and pulled John into the hall so she could give him a proper snog without making Sherlock uncomfortable. He grinned at her as he spoke, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Mary straightened his sweater and set his hair right again, “You chose me.”

She pecked at his lips one last time and then she was off.

John returned to the sitting room. Sherlock was sat in his chair, mindlessly plucking at his violin. Before John returned to his seat, he went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Neither man spoke. Being in each other’s presence was enough. Sherlock wondered what Mary would say if she ever found out. It did not matter, because he was fairly certain neither man would ever tell her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The version of “O Holy Night” is the one by Mannheim Steamroller. It’s a personal favourite of mine. Obviously, the embellishments that Sherlock took are not in this recording, I’m sorry. In my head it’s spectacular. And the version of Sugar Plum Faery for strings I liked best is this one. (Right, enough gushing about music now.) 
> 
> And yes, that bit with John choosing Mary is to contrast with what happened during “His Last Vow” – it seemed fitting.
> 
> Finally, This is the last chapter I have written right now. I've been struggling with some health issues which has affected my creative abilities. (Also, so far the Christmas Special has been killing my inspiration.)


End file.
